


lover

by solizabeth



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Growing Up Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pining, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 35,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24999931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solizabeth/pseuds/solizabeth
Summary: According to Patrick’s mom, ‘when you know, you know.’It’s vague, potentially completely unhelpful, but Patrick thinks he can get that. He thinks that’s something he can understand.He thinks maybe he’s always known.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 48
Kudos: 208





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [toews](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toews/gifts).



> hi. 
> 
> this got out of hand. but what else does one do when your friend loves taylor swift and soulmate au's and you think, yeah, there's potential to ruin a life there. 
> 
> in saying that, i also like to fondly refer to this as: the soulmate au that talks about soulmates a lot but also maybe isn't heavily reliant on soulmates. or taylor swift, for that matter. 
> 
> i dedicate all of this, every single word, to [toews.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toews/pseuds/toews) i never would have started it, let alone finished it, if it weren't for her support and love and the way she screams at me. not to mention the way i knew exactly how to do the aforementioned life ruining with every line of this fic. this is for you. 
> 
> (also if you recognise any song lyrics or movie lines weaved into the dialogue then yes, trust me, it was intentional.) 
> 
> this is the sappiest thing i've ever written and ever will write, so get your fill now, folks. 
> 
> quick warning: there's mentions of a seventeen-year-old wanting to be in pretty explicit sexual situations with another seventeen-year-old and what those fantasies entail. so please take heed if that makes you uncomfortable.

They say you don’t know who your soulmate is until they touch you. 

Which seems kind of—vague, to Patrick. 

A natural based confusion can arise here. Logic would dictate that touch is such an intrinsic part of human nature, certainly physiologically true, at the very least. It would be impossible, surely, to not know who your soulmate was if you chose to take the initial, blanket statement as a clear and defined truth. 

Patrick’s had people touching him his whole life; jumping into the hold of a teammate on the ice, an arm thrown around his shoulder, clasping the hand of someone new in greeting, fingers gripped at his wrist to get his attention. All those touches, all those countless moments, brief, drawn, fleeting and soft, platonic or— 

None of it mattered. None of it mattered unless you _meant_ it. 

It has to be a _touch._ Whatever that means. It has to be something with intent. 

So it’s not like Patrick was out there touching people with intent, or whatever. Fuck, that sounds—bad. Not good, certainly. As if the intention is that everyone is on the lookout, as if they’re reaching out to take the hand of the person they’re interested in, zeroing in with laser focus and hoping the stars align when they do or some shit like that. 

It’s really not like that. 

According to Patrick’s mom: ‘when you know, you know.’ 

It’s vague, potentially completely unhelpful but—but Patrick thinks perhaps he can get that. He thinks that’s something he can understand. 

He thinks maybe he’s always known. 

It’s not like the movies will have you believe, or the trashy teenage romance novels Patrick doesn’t read. He swears. They make it out to be like one day everything is normal and the next you’re touching someone who makes you smile and it’s like—like fireworks. There’s a building crescendo, with lights and colour and sound and—and they _know:_ this is it. 

This is it. 

It’s not like there’s some banner above your head, or a mark inked into your wrist when you’re born, but sometimes Patrick wishes there were. Maybe if there was, he wouldn’t have spent so long thinking he’d been so wrong. Or maybe—maybe even more time thinking: what if I’m right?

Not everyone meets their soulmate. The jury is still out on whether or not everyone even _has_ one. 

Which is fine, it’s _fine_ , but Patrick wishes more than anything that it won’t be him. 

Not everyone is lucky enough and sometimes it's just not logistically possible. Like, what if your soulmate lives on the other side of the world? Or they’re a lot younger and you never get the chance to meet? Or—fuck. Patrick could go on and on. The concept of finding your soulmate (or even having one, maybe) relies too heavily on fate and fate is such a fickle thing, or something like that. 

Sometimes people say wanting to meet your soulmate makes you a ‘hopeless romantic’, or that only girls daydream of meeting their soulmate, writing the names of boys they like in the margins of their notebooks and hoping they’ll touch them and _know_ between fourth and fifth period. Patrick thinks that’s kind of backward and sexist, he has sisters and he fucking knows better, thanks. Besides, if it’s supposedly only girls who want love and commitment and trust and support then—well—it must fucking suck to be a guy who doesn’t want that. All the guys Patrick knows _want_ that. 

Patrick may not be writing any names in his notebook, but he sure as fuck hopes he spends the rest of his life with the person he’s destined to be with. Maybe it’s selfish, but he hopes to be so lucky. 

Patrick wants to touch someone, he does. Like—like _that._ That urge, that feeling, that _need_ to reach out and tangle someone fingers with his own. He wants it to be too strong. He wants to feel like he’s choking on it, like the thickness of the air is something he can play with in his hands. He hopes one day, he has the nerve to do something like that. 

He wishes he knew more about it. He used to think when he was little that he wanted to study it, to understand it better. Maybe if he did that he could help other people. Maybe he could help himself. It’s so unknown, all of it, and Patrick wishes he just—he wishes he _knew._ But there’s too many variables, too much to even begin to unpack and not nearly enough time. 

He has this friend, Kyle, who he knows from when he went to hockey camp one summer when he was nine. His parents were soulmates.That in itself wasn’t so entirely crazy, or uncommon even, but what Patrick thought was positively mind bending (and especially when he was only nine), was that Kyle’s parents had known each other ever since elementary school.

Apparently they didn’t bond until they were twenty-two, when they were both off at separate colleges and home for the Christmas break. They’d run into each other at the local supermarket, both seeing other people back at their respective schools and neither looking but—but Kyle’s dad had touched his mom’s hand when they both reached for a bag of chips and—

That was it. 

Kyle’s mom says she had always hoped his dad was the one. Hours spent in high school sitting across from each other at the lunch table as teenagers, dumb and young and naive and willing the universe into hoping he could even begin to be the one. Willing him to reach out and touch her. 

Kyle said it was funny, that it was something they still laugh about because—because Kyle’s dad was thinking the exact same thing. 

Patrick thought the chances of your soulmate being someone you’ve known your whole life were so incredibly small, if not _impossible,_ because how in a world of seven billion people does your soulmate happen to be the person you’ve known since preschool? 

Impossible. 

But sometimes Patrick wishes—

He wishes it were probable. 

***

Patrick used to think his soulmate was Jonny. 

Which—well—if Patrick doesn’t dwell on it, it’s pretty fucking funny. 

In his defence he was only ten. 

He remembers telling his sister Erica about it, one day when they were sitting in the grass out in the backyard of their family home and Erica was making them play this elaborate game with dolls where they were—army doctors? Or mechanics in the army? Something sort of convoluted, but Erica had some intricate story planned for them all. 

“These two are soulmates,” she’d said, holding up two of the dolls who were like, the general and the captain or something. Or, chief medical officer. Jesus Christ. “So, they’re in love, and they can’t be separated or they’ll die.”

Patrick had nodded. “Yeah obviously.”

“No, Patty, they’ll _die!”_

“I know, Erica!” He’d whined. 

“Okay good. One day we’re gonna meet someone too, just like Chrissy and Sam.” She’d made the dolls kiss to prove the point. 

Patrick shrugged. “I’ve already got mine.”

Erica had gaped at him like a little fish. “What?! Who?”

“Jonny,” Patrick had said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. 

It had felt like it, at the time. 

“Jonny,” Erica repeated, dropping the dolls. “No he’s not.”

Erica knew Jonny, of course she did, he was practically her second brother. He thinks perhaps Jonny spent more time at the Kane’s than he did his own house, growing up. His parents _loved_ Jonny, so did his sisters, which was kind of annoying but—he got it. He really did. 

Patrick frowned. “Why? Yes he is. Shut up.” 

“He can’t be!”

“Why?!”

“He’s just _not,_ Patty.”

“Yeah?” Patrick had pouted angrily, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why not?”

“You’d already know!”

“I already know.”

Erica’s little nose was scrunched. “How?”

“I just do,” Patrick shrugged, “he’s—I’d die without him.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Erica responded snottily. 

“Yes I would!”

“But you guys touch all the time!” 

“Yeah but mom says it’s usually when you’re older and—”

“Jonny’s not your soulmate, Patty!”

“Yes he is, I love him!”

They’d both stared at each other angrily, the hard lines of their mouths matching until Patrick had felt angry tears start to burn at the corner of his eyes. He’d run inside a minute later, yelling for their mom to tell her how _mean_ Erica was. 

She still is, truthfully. 

Patrick had been so convinced Jonny was his soulmate, back then. He’d thought it from the moment Jonny had pushed him down into the mud on the playground and fell on top of him a second later as he laughed. He still maintains that it was an accident, that he was going to hug Patrick but stumbled and ended up pushing him instead. That’s what he _says,_ but Jonny's an awful liar. But it doesn’t matter. It never mattered. Jonny was such a big _weirdo_ and his teeth were kinda crooked and his nose had scrunched up when he laughed, resting right on Patrick’s chest, right there in the mud and—and Patrick never wanted to be apart from him again. 

Jonny was home. 

He was so annoying and dumb and awful and he made Patrick laugh in a way no one else did. He was sort of quiet but hilarious and so awesome at hockey and he—he made Patrick happy. 

And that was the heart of it all, really. 

They were probably too different, too opposite, but sometimes Jonny put his arm around Patrick’s shoulders and Patrick—

Patrick knew Jonny would always be home. 

And he still thinks that, that’s never changed, even when Patrick realised Erica was right and Jonny really wasn’t his soulmate. 

He’d told Jonny about what Erica had said, the next morning at school when Jonny was reviewing their math homework side by side to make sure they were both right. 

He’d looked up at Patrick with a furrow in his little brow, tip of the pencil almost in his mouth. “What do you mean we’re soulmates?” he’d asked. 

“Well, we will be,” Patrick had said confidently, kicking Jonny in the shin. Only gently. “Because I love you and you love me.”

Jonny’s eyes were so dark, they’d always been so dark. “Don’t be stupid.”

Patrick’s mouth had dropped open. “What?”

“Don’t be stupid, Pat. We’re not soulmates. You’re my friend.”

“Oh.”

And that was—well—that.

Patrick thought his little heart was going to break, which was sort of embarrassing. But stupid Jonny had broken it, with his big dumb eyes and stupid lopsided smile. 

The worst part was—at the time—was the thought that Patrick didn’t _want_ anyone but Jonny. If it wasn’t going to be Jonny, then Patrick didn’t want it, because as far he was concerned Jonny’s face was the only one he wanted to see next to him, forever. He was an idiot, he was Patrick’s idiot and Patrick didn’t want to live life without him. 

But Patrick got over that, obviously. 

Because Jonny was right. They were friends when they were four and when they were ten and still best friends now at seventeen. 

That wasn’t going to change. Patrick’s little childhood crush or not. They were friends and that was fine. It had always been nice to be Jonny’s friend, even if he didn’t love him back. 

Besides, Patrick got over it. He sort of had to. He was hardly going to put himself through some sort of emotional trauma, having to look at Jonny everyday and be left to fantasise over a future that only he dreamed of. He wanted it to be a dream he shared with Jonny, something they could do together, forever and always, but this was something he was destined to dream alone. 

It was a childish dream, something rooted in childhood fantasy and unrealistic expectations of love. Patrick wanted the story books to be right, wanted the stories his mom would read him before he went to sleep to be _right_ , but he wasn’t Cinderella and Jonny was hardly Prince Charming. 

It was stupid, anyway. That’s what Jonny had said. _Stupid._ And Patrick was seventeen now so it’s not as if he cared. He may have been all oddly cut up about it when he was ten but he was like, practically a fucking adult now, so, whatever. Okay so maybe he still had some growing up to do, but he liked to think he was more of a realist these days. 

Anyway, Jonny kind of sucked and was super fucking bossy and such a damn sore loser, so, Patrick doesn’t want him to be his stupid soulmate anyway, obviously. 

He does hope he meets his soulmate, though. Even if that is a little bit wishful and a lot fanciful. But he’ll meet them, he knows it, he just hopes he doesn’t have to wait too long. 

***

“You’re the fucking worst!”

“So you’ve said.”

“No, I’m serious this time, Jonny.”

“So you’ve also said.”

Patrick feels like he’s going to punch Jonny in his stupid, curved mouth. 

“Just let me fucking do it.”

“But you do it _wrong.”_

“They’re _cookies_ Jonny, I don’t see how I could do it so damn wrong, you piece of—”

Patrick could have handled Jonny arguing some more. Or perhaps a swift punch right to his arm, leaving it dead. Maybe even Jonny calling him a dickhead, he’s so utterly fond of doing that. Prick. He could have handled a lot, that’s the thing. But. It feels sort of fucking unnecessary for Jonny to shove a fistful of flour right into his face. His fucking _face._

It goes everywhere. No seriously, _everywhere._ It feels like Jonny’s thrown the whole fucking bag in his mouth and all Patrick can do is splutter indignantly whilst flour puffs around them, like some sort of chalky, disgusting cloud. Patrick can say goodbye to his favourite Sabres hoodie—jesus he can feel it right down under his shirt—and Jonny’s mom is going to fucking kill them when she see’s that state of the floor but—but Jonny’s just _laughing._

Idiot. 

Patrick coughs when he tries to speak, the flour getting stuck on his tongue, painted right on his throat and all he can do is cough helplessly. He hopes Jonny and his damn cookies _burn._

Patrick’s been plagued with this terrible affliction ever since he was just a child, something he’s never been able to shake. It’s inconvenient, sure. It’s led to more arguments than Patrick could even begin to count and has definitely earned him that dead arm on more than one occasion—but—thing is—

He can’t ever let Jonny win. 

Patrick picks up the closest thing to him, and throws it. Which, admittedly, might not be the _best_ fucking plan he’s ever had, ‘cause it could have easily been the, like, mix-master, but—whatever. Jonny deserves a fucking mix-master to the head sometimes. 

It’s just sugar, barely a cup, but he thinks the desired effect has been achieved, optimal fucking output, when it cascades beautitfully right over Jonny’s face. It gets in his hair, a few granules gluing to his eyelashes and when he blinks, slow and heavy, he looks _murderous._ Score. 

Jonny snaps, because of course he does, no hesitation in the strike of his strength when he reaches out to grab Patrick by the waist. He pulls him in, tight and rough and growls a, “fuck _off_ ,” as if he didn’t fucking start it. 

Patrick laughs, he can’t help it, falling into Jonny’s space, giving himself a moment before he retaliates. That’s certainly the plan, anyway. He never really knows what Jonny’s trying to achieve; Patrick might be small, but he’s not _that_ fucking small that Jonny can like, throw him over his shoulder. It’s kind of Jonny’s go-to move, even though it never fucking works. 

Patrick turns in the grip of Jonny’s arms, almost until Jonny’s chest is at his back and it causes Jonny to almost fold over him and squeeze roughly at his waist; his chin is tucked right into Patrick’s shoulder. 

“You’re such a dick,” Jonny says, laughter thick and deep in his voice, almost like he’s forcing himself not to break. 

Patrick hates to admit it, and he’d certainly never fucking _tell_ Jonny, but Jonny’s too fucking strong for his own good. He can make his grip tight, squeeze the breath right out of Patrick’s lungs just with the flex of his arms. Patrick shakes his head, curls full of flour and brushed right into Jonny’s face but—but he still laughs, just fucking _laughs_ ; he’s so close the sound falls right to the shell of Patrick’s ear. 

“Let go, you big goon,” Patrick tries to whine, but it comes out more _soft_ than anything else. He’s trying to grip at Jonny’s arms, to push him off, to pull him in closer—Patrick couldn’t say. But Jonny doesn’t budge. Whatever. It still gives Patrick a bone deep satisfaction to see the clear, white handprints press stark to the dark navy of Jonny’s sweater sleeves. 

Patrick doesn’t know if what they’re doing can even constitute as _fighting,_ they’re sort of just pushing at each other more than anything else; he’s trying to get as much flour on Jonny as he fucking can and Jonny’s just like, crushing the life out of him. 

But fuck—they can’t stop _laughing._

“ _Boys!”_

If Patrick weren’t caught in the cobra grip of Jonny’s arms, he thinks he would fly right across the kitchen at just the one, yelled syllable from Andrée Toews. He wants to, wants to move away from Jonny in a breath that’s faster than perhaps humanly possible but—but Jonny just sort of squeezes at him gently, knocking his nose against the side of Patrick’s neck before he peels away slowly. 

Patrick sort of wants to elbow him right in the ribs, so fucking bad, but Andrée probably doesn’t love him _that_ much. 

She’s staring at her kitchen in disbelief, the line of her mouth sharp and hard and they’ve been yelled at by her so many times it should be routine by now but—fuck. Patrick’s scared of it every time. 

“What on earth happened?” She asks, steady and calm and Patrick thinks perhaps he and Jonny are the bane of her whole fucking existence. 

Patrick can see Jonny shrug out of the corner of his eye. Bold choice. 

“We were making cookies, for the Christmas thing.”

Patrick rolls his eyes. _The Christmas Thing._ The Christmas thing being the stupid fucking bake sale their school runs every year at the holidays. The only reason they’re even doing it is because some absolute moron on their hockey team thought it would be a fucking _wonderful_ idea to get the whole team involved. Fucking Brandon. The kid is sweet as shit, but he just has to stop putting his goddamn hand up for every single fucking thing. 

“Really?” Andrée asks, levelling Jonny with a look so fierce Patrick sort of wants to sink in with the flour on the floor. Right into the floorboards. “It looks like you were attacking poor Patrick and ruining my kitchen in the process.”

Shit. Patrick’s mouth can’t help but bloom into a smile, tugging right on the corner of his lips and he has to try _so_ hard for it not to turn smug. He can practically _feel_ Jonny vibrating next to him, wanting to sputter with rage and it’s so fucking unnecessary Patrick just wants to laugh. 

“Yeah, Jonny,” he says, because he can’t resist, “why you attacking me, huh?”

God, Patrick never can resist the way Jonny gets so delightfully angry. He goes all red with it, like he wants to pin Patrick to the floury floor and sit on him until he calls uncle. 

Patrick flutters his eyelashes. He thinks there’s a bit of flour in them too. “It’s Christmas, you’re meant to be _nice_ to me.”

Jonny’s mouth twitches. “Can you please, _please_ forgive me, Kaner?”

Parick has to bite on his bottom lip to stop from laughing, right at the edge of it and Jonny’s so red it’s like Christmas has come early. Jonny’s mom huffs around laugh of her own, right in the doorway and Patrick hates that one look at the blush on Jonny’s cheeks was enough to make him forget she was even there. 

“You two are so ridiculous,” she says, moderately fond. “Reminds me of when your dad and I got this place, could barely cook anything without it ending in a mess.”

Patrick sort of grins at her in surprise, hardly able to picture Andrée and Bryan Toews having food fights in the kitchen. Surprising maybe, but not shocking. 

Shit, Patrick loves Jonny’s parents. They’ve never made Patrick feel anything less welcome, right from the moment Jonny dragged Patrick by his hand through the playground after the first day of kindergarten, to all but present him to his mom at the after school pick up. 

“This is Patrick, Maman,” he’d said, in his weird accent. “He’s mine.”

Andrée had smiled down at them both and Jonny’s small fingers had squeezed his own tighter. 

“Well then,” she’d smiled, her accent even _weirder_ than Jonny’s but her face impossibly kind. “Looks like you’ll be around for awhile, mon petit.”

And Patrick remembers thinking, _yeah, I hope so._

He’s loved her ever since. 

“Actually,” she muses, like she’s caught in her own memories, “one of the first times your dad touched me, we were—”

“Alright, okay, mom, yeah,” Jonny says so suddenly, cutting her off, “we’ll clean up, sorry.”

Patrick frowns, he can’t help it. He wants to flick Jonny right in the face for being rude to his mom, for cutting her off, especially when Patrick’s sure she was going to tell the story of when she and Jonny’s dad found out they were soulmates. Patrick _loves_ that story. 

It makes sense, that Jonny’s parents would be soulmates. Considering they’re fucking perfect and all that. 

Patrick always thought that should make Jonny warmer to the whole soulmates thing; the fact he has grown up with it in his life as such a constant. Patrick doesn’t know how Jonny can watch the way his dad smiles at his mom and not want that. 

Patrick wants it. 

He wants it more than anything.

Andrée sighs and Patrick’s never one-hundred percent sure which way she’ll go whenever they reach this juncture. It could just as easily be yelling as it is forgiveness and never say Patrick Kane isn’t one for the thrill. 

“Sorry, Andrée,” he says quickly, just in case, and she smiles at him. 

“It’s okay, mon petit.”

 _My little one._ Patrick thinks she chose that for him the day they met and won’t ever stop. He sort of hopes she doesn’t. 

She glares at Jonny one last time before she leaves and Jonny mutters a completely obvious, “ _favouritism,”_ under his breath. 

Damn right Andrée loves Patrick best. 

“So, shall I continue baking, whilst you clean?” Patrick asks happily, brushing some excess flour off his face, not that it helps, it feels fucking glued there. 

Jonny rolls his eyes and flicks the last bit of flour from the bowl right into Patrick’s closed mouth. Dick. 

Still, Patrick can’t do much more than laugh as he brushes his fingers over his lips. “I can’t help that your mom loves me the most, man. I think she wants me to join the family. Like, properly. I heard she’s getting rid of your birth certificate and adopting me.”

“You’re an idiot,” Jonny says, all gruff about it and Patrick can’t resist getting a little up in his face. He never can. 

“Lucky you love me,” he practically sings, having to tilt his head slightly upward from this angle, just to look at Jonny properly. Patrick sort of hates how much bigger Jonny is than him. He always has been. He could tuck him under his arm when they were four and he can tuck him under his arm now and Patrick doesn’t know which time was worse. 

Patrick sort of hates it, but he sort of loves it, too. 

Because he doesn’t know who they would be if he didn’t fit so perfectly into the space of Jonny’s side. 

He doesn’t know who they would be if Jonny couldn’t rest his chin on the top of his head and how he always has to tilt his chin just right for the angle to be perfect. It’s always perfect. 

“Lucky you love me,” he says again, some of the mirth from it gone and Jonny’s eyes don’t betray him at all. They’re so dark, so gentle and Patrick can’t read them. He’s always tried so hard to. 

Jonny lifts his hand, as if to touch to Parick’s face and God, Patrick wants him to. He wants him to. He feels a taste like candied apple and toffee flood his tongue, he feels like his mouth waters from it, like he so desperately needs to chase it. He feels the stickiness from it, the way it catches on his tongue and he—he can’t swallow. It’s dizzying, almost, and so foreign Patrick feels like he can’t decide between the chase or to run. 

Jonny has to touch him, he needs to touch him and Patrick doesn't even know _why,_ but stars are swimming at the corner of his eyes. Not the stars in Buffalo, not here; the stars in Canada, at Jonny’s lake house where they’ve spent almost every summer since they were six. The night is so clear there, Patrick’s always felt like all he and Jonny would need to do is reach _extra_ hard and the stars would gather in their palms. 

Those stars are in front of him, now. 

“Jonny—” he tries, but it feels stuck, like the toffee he tastes is real. 

He wishes it were real. 

“You—” Jonny starts, his voice equally as tied and he almost looks shocked from it. He breathes, lets his eyes drift shut and his hand falls back to his side. Patrick feels like the floor has dropped out from beneath his feet. “You’ve got flour, right on your cheek.”

“What?” Patrick asks dumbly, unable to do much else. 

“Flour,” Jonny repeats, like it hurts and fuck—Patrick is hurting, too. 

“Oh, okay.” Patrick brushes at his cheek, hoping that with it he can brush away some of the shame. 

Because he feels it, so sudden and so _deep_ ; he feels embarrassed.

Patrick had felt stars and Jonny felt—nothing. That is clear. That is so obvious. It’s almost startling. 

Fuck. 

Fuck fuck fuck. 

***

So maybe Patrick never got over his crush. 

That’s what Patrick calls it. What he _has_ to call it. Any other version of reality seems far too mortifying; far too confronting. 

Because—because Patrick couldn’t be in love with Jonny, he just _couldn’t_ be. 

( _LiarLiarLiar)_

He remembers telling Erica as clear as day, little fingers bunched into fists as he shouted, “ _I love him!”_ But he wasn’t ten anymore. He wasn’t a child. 

But something about the memory feels the same. Something in Patrick wishes to curl his fingers into fists again now, hands bigger and stronger but the feeling so overwhelmingly the _same_.

_I love him._

_I love him!_

Patrick feels a confusion, settled right into the joints of his bones, leaving them to crack. He feels dizzy from it, like he can’t stand, like keeping his eyes open has him sick. 

Jonny had dropped his hand and turned from Patrick, right there in the kitchen, turning from him as if it meant nothing. As if the raise of his fingers meant _nothing._ They’d cleaned and baked, working in relative silence and it was something so against them, against who they were, it was impossible not to feel suffocated by it. 

They were hardly ever silent when they were together, Patrick always too loud and too brash and Jonny always too willing to push back. 

It’s who they were. _How_ they were. 

Push and pull. Give and take. Patrick was always willing to take every single inch Jonny gave him and could only hope to try and give a shred of it back in return. 

Because—because Jonny was a lot of things. Kinda mean, bossy, annoying and too serious but—but he was _good_ , he was so shockingly good and—and good to Patrick. 

He was so good to Patrick. 

Patrick hated feeling lesser, hated when people tried to make him feel as such, and even though Jonny had a fondness for calling him an incompetent sack of shit, or fucking useless or—

(All on the ice, of course). 

—even though Jonny could be an asshole, he never made Patrick feel like he was any less than what he was worth. And what he was worth to Jonny, felt like gold. 

Jonny looked at Patrick and Patrick felt like gold. 

And Patrick never thought that could be anything more than it simply was. He was happy with who they were, with how he felt; he was _content_ with it. He accepted when he was just a child that Jonny would never be his and he’d accepted that was _okay._ He’d always assumed he’d meet someone who’d make him feel more worth it than what Jonny did. But in that moment, in the kitchen with flour settling into the cracks of the floor, Patrick realised that it wasn’t gold. 

It was sunshine. 

Looking into Jonny’s face felt like turning his gaze directly to the sun and it was so blinding, so overwhelming, Patrick knew that no one else would ever make him feel like that again. 

So maybe the conclusion stood, maybe it wasn’t so confusing at all. 

Jonny was his soulmate. Patrick was _Jonny’s_ soulmate and he was his. 

Jonny was the person he was written to be with in something that could only be explained as destiny. 

Patrick doesn’t care about soulmates. Not anymore. Not really. 

He only cares about Jonny. 

Jonny was his night sky full of stars and Patrick wishes— _wants—_ to be the sun for Jonny in return. Jonny’s never deserved anything less than the glow of the sun, and Patrick wants to be worthy of that. He wants to be enough. 

_Don’t be stupid, Pat._

As much as Patrick hates to admit it, nothing ever stung the way that did. Deep and thick, like it was something he’d never be able to shake. Not really. Because maybe it was nothing, maybe Jonny didn’t know any better, but Patrick still feels inexplicitly paralysed from the thought of it all. 

If he were to bring it up with Jonny, or let alone try to—God— _touch_ him, he doesn’t know if his heart could cope in the same way it had when he was just a kid, if Jonny were to reject him in the same way. 

What if—

If Jonny called him stupid again, in that dull, off-handed way he did, Patrick doesn’t know if he could survive. 

He doesn’t know if he could remain Jonny’s friend.

And a life without Jonny as his friend is a life Patrick doesn’t want to entertain. 

But to see Jonny—to see Jonny choose someone else, to live his life with someone else, would be the sweetest form of self ruin. To see him touch the skin of someone who’s not him, to tuck someone under his arm in the space that Patrick’s always thought belonged to him. 

Therefore the question remains:

Is it better to live a life with Jonny, a half life, one where his mouth stays shut and the stars stay trapped in the space around his heart; left there to die. 

Or is it better to speak, to close his eyes and leap off the edge; the risk of falling, landing heavy on the ground and leaving himself open for blood to paint heavy over the pavement, too painful to bear. 

Is it better to speak or to die?

***

**November 19, 1994.**

Patrick was having the best day. 

No seriously, the _best_ day.

His birthday was always his favourite, like, his absolute favourite and he loved it so much when he got to have his party on the day of his birthday. It always felt extra special. Like, people loved him extra. Which felt kinda silly, ‘cause Patrick felt loved _loads_ , but people were always extra nice to him on his birthday and he got presents which was cool and this year he got to have his party at the ice rink which was _extra_ cool. 

He’d wanted to have his birthday at the ice rink last year too, but his mom said some of his friends were too little and it wasn’t _safe._ But this year Patrick begged and begged and asked his mom _please,_ like, so many times and she finally told him it was okay. Besides, he’d started playing hockey with a lot of his friends this year and they were all super good so his mom totally didn’t need to be worried. He was six now, so he was totally grown up. 

It was sort of funny when his friend, Patrick, kept falling over. He was called Patrick too, so sometimes they liked to call him Sharpy, like his last name, Sharp. Which always made Patrick laugh because it was like he was a pen, but just spelled a little different. 

Patrick Sharpy the marker.

But it was funny ‘cause he kept falling and Patrick laughed every time and then he thinks Sharpy just started falling ‘cause it made Patrick laugh. 

It made Jonny laugh, too, and Jonny laughing was like, Patrick’s most favourite thing on the planet. 

Jonny was his best friend, his _best_ friend and he was sometimes so dumb and serious and tried to make Patrick do stupid things like their homework during recess, so when he laughed it made Patrick so happy. 

So, so happy. 

Patrick loved when he was the one to make Jonny laugh mostest, but Sharpy making him laugh was okay too. Sharpy was really funny, anyway. 

Jonny’s nose would get all scrunched up and his teeth were kinda crooked and sometimes Patrick wanted to put his fingers in his mouth just to keep it turned upward. But Patrick thought that might be a little weird so he never did. 

Jonny would probably let him, though. 

They were on the ice playing a game, sticks flying everywhere and Patrick was having so much fun he could just die. Their friend Corey was the goalie and he was so good but Patrick had been working extra hard on his shooting so he felt really confident when he skated up toward the net with Jonny by his side. Jonny stole the puck off Brent (which was awesome ‘cause Brent was pretty awesome) and he just perfectly passed it to Patrick and Patrick just knocked it in right through Corey’s legs. Right to the back of the net! 

Patrick was so happy, he felt like he was going to burst like a balloon, and he felt even more happy when Jonny jumped on him and they both tumbled down onto the ice. Even though Jonny was only small, he wasn’t as small as Patrick, so it was easy for him to hold Patrick close so he didn’t crash to the ice too hard. Not that Patrick would have cared, anyways. He was too happy. 

“You’re the best, Pat!” Jonny yelled happily.

Patrick was just lying on the ice, sort of like one of those starfish things he’d seen once at the beach and Jonny was hugging him right around his middle and smiling at him like Patrick was the greatest. It was _awesome._

“ _You’re_ the best!” He said back, putting his arms around Jonny’s shoulders and pulling him in closer. 

Jonny laughed and Patrick felt it right down into his skin. Which felt weird, but super cool and Jonny’s eyes were so bright. 

Last summer Patrick got to go with Jonny and his parents to their lake house up in Canada. They’d spent the whole time fishing and swimming and eating awesome food and Jonny’s dad took them and Jonny’s brother, David, camping for a night out in the middle of _nowhere._ Even though they had tents, he and Jonny had pulled their sleeping bags outside so they could sleep on the grass and keep an eye out for bears. 

They’d looked up at the stars for _ages_ , pretending they could see different shapes and when they couldn’t stop laughing at one group of stars that looked kind of like a hockey stick, Jonny’s dad had popped his head out from his tent and told them to be quiet and go to sleep. 

Patrick had never seen the stars so bright, never ever in his whole life and when he’d told Jonny, Jonny had reached out and held Patrick’s hand, right over his sleeping bag. He told Patrick they could come back, that they could come look at the stars every summer, forever. 

Patrick hoped he wasn’t lying. 

It sort of felt like that now, Jonny’s eyes, smiling at him so close, like the stars were right in Patrick’s palm. 

“Happy Birthday, Pat,” Jonny said. He knocked their helmets together a moment later and kept them there.

This was the best birthday Patrick had ever had. 

***

So, Patrick wasn’t about to start picking at the petals of a flower all, “he loves me, he loves me not,” but, like, if anyone had a fucking rose he could sure use the help. 

It all just felt sort of stupid. 

Jonny was being so—so—

Idiotic. 

And Patrick had totally seen him being idiotic, like, hundreds of times during their lives. 

Like one time he thought he could play in the final of their under-12’s hockey league, even though he had a busted ankle and the doctor explicitly told him he had to stay off the ice for at _least_ a month. Jonny had insisted it was fine, that he was ready to play and he was being so fucking stubborn about it Patrick thought he was going to have to chain him to the bench. 

Patrick had told him to stop being an idiot, whispered it right into his ear and Jonny had finally agreed to stay fucking put. 

_Win it for me,_ he’d said, and win it Patrick did. 

But this was different. This was Jonny turning down fate. _Fate._

Fuck. 

It’s entirely probable, and Patrick has to entertain the idea, that perhaps Jonny didn’t even know what was happening to them. He was bright, sort of smart (which Patrick would be loath to admit and perhaps only under duress), but he often had a tendency to miss the things that were right at the end of his nose. 

Patrick would say he’s not having a complete and utter meltdown to Sharpy about it at the computers in the school library on their free period, but—

Well. 

Not that he’s even _said_ anything yet. 

“Jesus Christ, will you stop?” Sharpy snaps, swatting at Patrick’s wrist. 

And—what? 

Oh. Right. He’d sort of been chewing his fucking fingers off. 

“Sorry,” he says quickly, sticking his hands under his thighs to keep them still. “I’m just—”

When Patrick doesn’t continue Sharpy raises an eyebrow, glancing away from where he’s writing up his English report. Or, researching for it or some shit. Patrick doesn’t know why he bothers, the computers at school are _so bad,_ you may as well go run a lap around the gym whilst it even boots up the fucking internet. But Sharpy says he likes this search engine on there, ‘cause it always gives him all the answers for his homework. Patrick thinks he just likes the internet so he can talk to his girlfriend, Abby, who goes to a school across town. 

They met at a school district dance, which is so lame, but then they became friends on MySpace and now Sharpy’s, like, all dumb and obsessed with her. 

(Patrick might be secretly sort of jealous because he’s met Abby a few times now and she’s actually sort of wicked and he’s also pretty sure they’re going to bond any day now. He’s surprised they haven’t already, actually.) 

“What’s up, Peeks?” Sharpy asks, sort of sincere about it and Patrick frowns. Shit, he must really look strung out. 

“Do you think Abby is your soulmate?” He blurts out, too loud for the library but unable to take it back. 

Sharpy’s eyebrow raises higher, like he’s thrown by the question, but he’s also sort of starting to smile fondly and yeah. That’s good. 

“Maybe,” he says slowly, leaning back in his chair. “Why?”

Patrick ignores the question. “Do you think you _know,_ though? Doesn’t it feel like more than just a ‘maybe’?” 

Sharpy sighs, like he’s a little fond for Patrick and his stupidity, which seems kind of standard. “Yeah,” he says finally, speaking softly like he’s letting out some huge secret. Patrick supposes he sort of is. “I think she is.”

“How can you tell?”

Sharpy smiles. “We haven’t bonded yet, obviously, but whenever I’m with her I just—it’s like, I never want to imagine life without her.”

“But then—don’t you guys, like, touch all the time? How do you not bond?”

“Oh yeah,” he smirks, the line of his mouth smug, “we touch.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and removes a hand from under his leg so he can punch Sharpy right in his stupid arm. “Not what I mean, dick.”

Sharpy laughs, like he’s not even bothered Patrick just socked him one. “I know, I know. But—yeah, it’s not really like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, I touch her plenty, sure, and she touches me and yeah, I know she’s it for me, but I guess I’m waiting.”

Patrick frowns. “But—does that even work?”

“Totally. When we’re ready to bond I’ll touch her proper, make it all romantic and shit.”

“Huh.” Patrick guesses that makes sense. He knows of plenty of couples who dated for ages before they actually bonded. But. “Why, though? If you know she’s the one, why not just bond? Don’t you want to know for sure?”

Sharpy shrugs. “Yeah. But we’re still super young and it’ll actually be worse now, if we bond.”

Okay, _that_ makes no fucking sense to Patrick. The shock and confusion must be written so plainly across his face ‘cause Sharpy sort of laughs. 

“Dude. We’re still teenagers, we live with our parents and she doesn’t even go to this school.”

Patrick still doesn’t get it. “So?”

“So,” Sharpy repeats slowly, like Patrick is dumb, “when people bond it’s like—that feeling—Jesus. Okay, you know that time my mom had to go work in California for a few months?”

Patrick nods. Not that he remembers it for being anything special. They were only fourteen and Sharpy had been completely unbothered by it at the time. 

“Well,” Sharpy continues, “my parents said it was fine, like, they weren’t bothered or anything and it wasn’t a big deal. We were all kind of sad I guess, like no one _wants_ their mom to not be around for a few months, but whatever. And dad was fine, they just said their farewells and it was good. But then, maybe when mom had been gone for like a month? Maybe a bit less, I walked in to my dads study late one night and he was just fucking crying. Like. I had _never_ seen my dad cry, it was insane. I almost thought I was dreaming.”

Jesus. Yeah. Patrick can’t imagine Mr. Sharp crying either. Weird.

“So, I asked him if he was okay, obviously, and he didn’t even pretend he wasn’t upset. He just sort of broke down and said how much he was missing mom. Said that not having her with him was like someone had taken a whole piece of him away.”

“ _Woah.”_

“Yeah,” Sharpy nods, “it was crazy. He told me about how having a soulmate was the most incredible, most wonderful thing in the world but when they were apart, even just a few days, it was like— it was like he couldn’t breathe properly without her.”

Patrick feels like he’s spinning. 

“So, it’s like, the way I figure it with Abby—I love her and I want to be with her, but it’ll actually hurt more if we were to bond now, you know? Because we couldn’t see each other all the time. I’d rather wait until we’re able to live together, or something.”

“Fuck,” Patrick says, because he doesn’t know what else there is to say. 

Sharpy just nods, like he’s accepted this long ago, which shit, he probably has. 

Patrick doesn’t know what to say because—yeah. Yeah that makes sense, of course it does. It’s completely logical and he supposes he’s heard of it being like that, mostly in the movies more than anything, but that’s not what’s really getting to him. 

Once, when Patrick was eleven, his family spent a month travelling all around America in a caravan. It was awesome. Patrick had seen so many cool touristy things, like the Grand Canyon and Mount Rushmore and Yosemite Park. Patrick thinks back now and realises he and his sisters were probably totally annoying to their parents, especially with Jacks and Jess being pretty young at the time, but the picture of them all in front of The Golden Gate Bridge still hangs proudly in the centre of their living room; all of them are smiling so _big_ Patrick can still remember the way his face hurt from it. 

Patrick remembers the ache. The dull ache. He felt it creeping in when they were somewhere between Ohio and Indiana. It felt small, at first. Something he could ignore. But with each day, countless hours spent on the great open road, Patrick felt like a part of him was chipping away.

It was like something was missing, like he’d woken up one morning and put his shirt on backward. He couldn’t place it until one morning when they were at a gas station in Illinois and his mom was using a payphone to dial home to their grandparents. She’d asked Patrick when she got off the phone if he’d like to call Jonny and Patrick felt winded. 

His mom had said it simply, like it was the most normal thing in the world, but to Patrick it was like someone was pulling apart a loose bit of thread tied around his ribs. 

Patrick had practically scrambled for the phone, his mom laughing at his eagerness and telling him to settle down as she pulled up Jonny’s parents’ number in her address book. 

He’d been bouncing on his feet when she spoke to Jonny’s mom, each passing second making him feel like he was going to be positively sick. 

Patrick had all but yelled into the phone when she’d handed it to him. “Jonny! Jonny? Jonny! Jonny?”

“Say my name one more time, Pat. I dare you.”

Patrick was so giddy he didn’t even care Jonny was the world's biggest tool. “Jonny, oh my god, we saw this huge ball of yarn!”

Jonny had laughed and Patrick felt tethered only to that sound through the tinny speaker of the gas station phone. He talked and talked, telling Jonny about every single little thing that had happened to them on the trip, even the story of Erica getting food poisoning from some bad shrimp and he could _feel_ her glaring at him from next to the caravan. He was just so excited and nervous and overwhelmed and he wanted to climb through the phone and right into Jonny’s heart. 

His mom had started to point at her watch, way too soon, letting him know time was up and Patrick thought he was going to die. 

“Jonny, I gotta go, but, I’ll see if I can call you again soon, okay?”

“Yeah. Please?” Jonny had said quietly, like it was a question. 

“For sure,” Patrick nodded quickly, even though Jonny couldn’t see him. “As soon as I can. If mom will let me.”

“Okay,” Jonny said and Patrick was about to tell him bye, was about to hang up, when Jonny whispered, “I miss you, Pat.”

Patrick felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

Patrick had been just like Mr. Sharp, helpless and unable to breathe. 

Sharpy stares at him, waiting in question and Patrick doesn’t know what to _do_ , let alone say. 

“Pat,” Sharpy tries, a little slow, “are you alright?”

“Do you think—” Patrick says quickly, before he stops himself. Fuck. “Do you—I mean—do you think—”

“That you and Jonny are soulmates?”

Patrick blinks. Once. Twice. 

He can hear the buzzing of the computer screen, the whir of the fan in the modem at their feet. He can hear the librarian, Mrs Gilmore, telling a student off for losing a book, up at the front desk and he can see a group of ninth graders out of the corner of his eye playing Pokemon cards. Everything is loud and normal and so startling the same and Patrick feels like he’s going to be sick. 

“What?” he says, unable to hear himself. 

Sharpy moves a little closer, like he wants to reach out and put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “This cannot be news, buddy.”

And it’s not, it’s _not._ But Patrick doesn’t know what to do. It’s one thing to think it, to have been resolute on it since perhaps the moment Jonny first smiled at him with teeth too big when they were four but—

No one has ever just— _said it._

“I kind of thought you bonded when we were like, five, to be honest. But then I asked my mom and she said it didn’t really work like that, that you gotta be at least a teenager, you know? Hormones and shit.”

“Right, yeah,” Patrick nods, nonsensically. 

“So we’ve all just been sort of waiting.”

Patrick jerks his head so fast he feels his neck crack. “What? _We?”_

Sharpy shrugs, looking _sorry_ for Patrick. “Yeah. Duncs, Seabs, Crow—I don’t know, man, everyone.”

“What—”

“Dude, I make fun of you and Tazer all the time!”

Patrick feels like his tongue is caught somewhere back in his throat. “Yeah—but—like— _joking around.”_

Because, yeah, the guys joke, they all do. All their friends. Everyone on the team. 

_Oh, mom and dad are fighting._

_I thought they said soulmates couldn’t read minds? You guys on some telepathy shit._

_One day I hope someone looks at me the way Tazer looks at Kaner._

_No one will ever look at someone the way Tazer looks at Kaner._

Jokes. 

They were just _jokes._

Jokes that never failed to make Patrick blush; jokes that always hit that little too close to home; jokes that made Jonny get all weird and disgruntled (but that was kind of normal); jokes that Patrick wanted so badly to be _true._

Perhaps it's not a matter of wanting the fairytale with Jonny. Patrick doesn’t care about white picket fences or a kitchen that always smells of apple pie. Even though he kind of loves apple pie so that would be okay. But. Thing is, Patrick doesn’t need Jonny to get down on one knee and ask to bond in the sight of God. Or whatever it is people do. 

Patrick doesn’t need Jonny to be anything but exactly who he is. 

Because that’s what Patrick’s always wanted. All he’s ever wanted. 

All he’s ever wanted was for Jonny to look at him just the way he always has; like Patrick is everything. 

Patrick lets out a noise that can only be frustration, maybe desperation, he can’t tell. But Sharpy is looking at him like he bumped his head and forgot which way was up and—that kind of sums it up, really. 

“Patrick,” he says, which—shit—Sharpy _never_ calls him _Patrick. “_ You love him—”

Patrick makes that noise again. He can’t do this. 

“—and he loves you.”

Yeah. Patrick can’t do this. 

“I—” _know,_ Patrick wants to finish. Because he does know. He knows Jonny loves him, in the way he does all the people he cares for. Patrick’s never doubted the way Jonny cares for him, or respects him or—

But he’s always doubted the _way_ in which Jonny loves him.

“I—I don’t think—”

“Patrick,” Sharpy says again, in a tone Patrick doesn’t think he’s ever heard from him. It’s too serious. Too intense. It makes Sharpy older than he is; older than the seventeen-year-old kid who’s been tormenting them all since they could walk. “Peeks, Jonny doesn’t know how to do anything _but_ be in love with you.”

Well. Shit 

_Shit._

***

“Hey, Jonny—Jon—wait up!”

Patrick doesn’t think he needs to have yelled so loud, or shit, even said as much. He’d barely shouted a rushed, “ _hey,”_ from across the quad and he saw the turn of Jonny’s neck, the dark search of his eyes as he looked for the source of Patrick’s voice. He’s always doing that, acting like he knows Patrick from just one, yelled syllable. He probably does, Patrick’s been yelling out for him enough ever since they were kids. 

It’s probably embarrassing to be half running, especially when he almost trips over a group of eleventh graders trying to study, or whatever, right in the middle of the grass. Like, don’t do that? It’s December and it’s fucking _cold._ And don’t fucking sit in the middle of the fucking quad and not expect for someone to—

Whatever. It’s fine. But Patrick is antsy, all kinds of keyed up and he doesn’t even know what he’s _doing._

“Hey,” Patrick says again, catching up to where Jonny had been wandering toward the chem lab with Seabs. “Hey, oh my god, I almost fucking faceplanted right on top of Lucy Reid.”

Seabs laughs, the sound always so fucking warm and deep. “You’d love to faceplant on top of Lucy Reid, Kaner.”

Patrick’s face scrunches into something unpleasant, ‘cause come on. “Dude, she’s a junior.”

“So?”

“So—I don’t know—she’s too young for me. Gross. I don’t know. Shut up.”

Seabs laughs again. “I think _somebody_ has a crush on Lucy Reid.” He practically fucking sings it. 

Seabs probably knows that’s not true, like, he _definitely_ knows (mainly because Patrick doesn’t think he’s ever spoken more than two words with her outside this study group they’re both in), but one day Patrick happened to wake up and everyone in their fucking friendship group decided he was the easiest to chirp and they all fucking suck. 

“You suck,” Patrick says, affirming the thought in his head. 

Seabs is just sort of smirking, smug bastard, but Jonny’s looking down at his feet like he’d rather be absolutely anywhere else. Fucking weirdo. He never wastes an opportunity to chirp Patrick. Maybe—maybe he thinks Lucy is kind of cute, or something. 

Sharpy is so _wrong._

But. 

Patrick has to—

“Yeah, so,” Patrick tries, “you guys got chem now?”

It’s a dumb question, because Patrick knows the answer is yes, Seabs and Jonny also know that Patrick knows the the answer is yes, so they get caught in this strange moment where they stare at Patrick and Patrick stares back. 

“Yeah,” Seabs says slowly, “and I’m gonna go to it now, so,” he trails off. “I’ll see you there, Jonny.”

Jonny nods, doesn’t even question it. Patrick doesn’t know if he was being that obvious, at how desperately he wanted to speak to Jonny alone, but Seabs has known him, known them both, since first grade and Patricks sort of terrible at keeping anything off his face.

Seabs rolls his eyes at them before he takes off, bag slung over his shoulder and muttering something that suspiciously has the word _idiots_ in it but Patrick doesn’t really care.

“Hey,” he says finally, when he’s got Jonny all to himself. He tries not to smile when he says it. 

Jonny doesn’t hide his smile at all. “Hey.”

God. Patrick wants to touch him. 

Not—not even like _that._ He just—he wants his hands on Jonny. Wants to put his fingers in his mouth, just like he did when he was six, and keep the smile there forever. 

“I thought this was your favourite day of the week. Aren’t you sick of me?” Jonny says, a little teasingly but mostly fond. 

It’s sort of a joke. Actually, it’s completely a joke because they both fucking know it’s the _worst_ day of Patrick’s week. 

Tuesday’s. Fucking Tuesday’s. 

The one day where they don’t have a _single_ class together; their free periods don’t even align. Patrick hates it. 

It means he only sees Jonny when he picks him up in the morning and they drive in together, and at lunch, and sometimes like now between Patrick’s free and Jonny’s chem. And then they’ll go home together, too; they don’t have hockey practice on Tuesday so they usually spend the afternoon at Jonny’s. Jonny always tries to get them to do their homework, or get Patrick to quiz him on the flashcards he’s drawn up for whatever test he has that week, but Patrick usually complains (and complains and complains and complains) enough that Jonny usually gives in and lets them play video games. Score Patrick. 

But. 

Not one single class. Not _one._

It’s not fair. 

Fucking Tuesday’s. 

Normally, at this juncture, Patrick would say something like: 

_Duh, obviously._

_You know I live for Tuesday’s, when I don’t have to see the back of your ugly head in front of me in bio._

_I’m gonna go to the office and see if I can get my schedule changed so we can never have a class together again._

Or: 

_Don’t lie you big piece of shit it’s_ your _least favourite day of the week._

Instead, “I just wanted to be with you.”

The smile drops from Jonny’s mouth, turning the line of it gentle. He doesn’t look upset, or afronted, just—just surprised, more than anything. Patrick can see it in the way his eyes go wide; wider than they normally so naturally are.

Patrick loves Jonny’s eyes. They’re the most expressive part about him. 

People have always tried to say Jonny’s eyes are dark and lifeless, which Patrick thinks is such a _huge_ miscalculation they need to get their own fucking vision checked out. 

Jonny has a way of scaring people to death with his gaze, sure. It’s been plenty helpful in all his years as captain, but—but he knows how to pin you with them, too. 

They’re big and dark and _warm_ , like he holds all his affection and everything he can’t say just in the heat of them. 

When they were thirteen, Patrick broke his collarbone. 

It was nothing, really. It happened out on the ice, knocked over and pushed head first into the boards by some dumbfuck from Lakeview Middle School. 

They really weren’t meant to be that rough when they were playing at that age, but this dude thought he was some sort of defence enforcer or something and preyed on Patrick as an easy target. Figures, Patrick had already deked the puck past him half a dozen times before they even reached the end of period one; two goals, one assist. 

Patrick remembers it hurting, sure. Like, loads. But when he first went to the floor he was more in shock than anything else, just trying to control his breathing above the roar in his ears and the pain that begged to seep in and radiate right through his blood stream. 

He thought Jonny was literally going to kill the other guy. 

He’d watched in morbid horror as Jonny tried to take him on, acting as if he were a hundred pounds heavier and a foot taller than he was. He didn’t get to do much, just land a few blows to the guys stunned jaw before he was getting pulled away by the refs. They were only kids, it wasn’t like it was the fucking NHL and fighting was being damn encouraged. 

Patrick had still been on the ice, sitting flat on his ass as Coach and a few of their other teammates surrounded him to see if he was okay. Jonny practically shoved them out of the way to get to him. 

Jonny didn’t even _speak,_ neither of them could, especially when Patrick felt like if he opened his mouth he was just going to start fucking crying and that would have been _so_ embarrassing. 

But Jonny was looking at him, really _looking_ with those big, dumb, soft, beautiful eyes and no word he could have said meant as much as that did, right in that moment. 

_I’ve got you,_ he said, without saying anything at all. _You’re mine and I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay._

“Hurts,” Patrick had said, all he could manage, and Jonny was crowded in front of him so close it was like he was trying to block Patrick off, protect him, from the whole world. 

Fear. Anger. Blinding _worry._ Patrick felt all of it. He felt it in Jonny’s eyes. 

And in some crazy, weird, _confusing_ way, Patrick didn’t even feel his own pain, in that moment; he felt Jonny’s. 

Jonny’s pain _for_ him. 

And Patrick wanted to take it. He’d wanted to throw down his glove and place his bare, warm hand to the flushed skin of Jonny’s cheek. All the fear, all the rage, he wanted to absorb it and absolve it, right into his own chest. 

He wanted to take every part of Jonny, everything he’d ever felt, and fuse it with his own heart. 

Patrick didn't know if he'd ever felt more loved by Jonny, than he did in that moment. 

But Patrick doesn’t know what Jonny’s eyes say now. 

Surprise. Confusion. 

Maybe. 

Patrick can’t be sure.

“Sorry,” Patrick says suddenly, shaking his head, “that’s not—I didn’t—”

He’s making this weird and he can’t even stop himself. 

“I’ll let you go to chem, sorry, I—sorry.” Patrick is quick to turn away, he wants to _run,_ but he—

Jonny’s hand grabs so suddenly and tightly at his wrist. 

It’s cold, cold enough for Patrick to be layered in a thick coat outside, so Jonny’s grip should barely register through the material. But it does. Fuck, it does. 

“Don’t go,” Jonny says. His voice is deep, quiet, like touching Patrick is flaying him, too.

Patrick has no choice but to look back at Jonny, back into those eyes, and there’s something so vulnerable in them Patrick can’t remember that he needs to fill his lungs with air just to breathe. 

It feels like that moment the other week in Jonny’s kitchen, when they were covered in flour and the night sky was swimming in Patrick’s vision. It feels intense, like it’s _important;_ they’re not just standing at the edge of the fucking quad. They feel at the edge of something bigger; a moment that could change everything. 

“Don't—” Jonny tries, but stops, and Patrick’s overwhelmed with this feeling like Jonny was going to say, _Don’t leave me._

 _Never,_ Patrick would reply. 

“It’s the worst day of my week.”

Patrick doesn’t even know what that means, not for a second, and it must show on his face because even as it starts to become clear, in a way that makes his fingers numb, Jonny explains it. 

“Tuesday’s,” he says, pulling Patrick into him closer, “I hate Tuesday’s.”

Patrick swallows. “Jonny—”

“I hate every moment you’re not with me.”

Jonny could play it off as a joke, he could. By not saying anything, Patrick is letting him. He’s giving Jonny an out. 

He’s never wanted Jonny to be more in, in his whole life. 

Patrick’s not an idiot. He’s not—he’s not _stupid,_ regardless of what Jonny says, and he can’t miss those words for what they mean. Shit. What he _hopes_ they mean, at least.

 _Me too,_ Patrick wants to say. He wants to scream it. 

The air is crackling, fizzling out and the taste around them is thick and almost metallic. It’s like standing too close to the fireworks they set off by the lake on the fourth of July; electrifying and _fun_ but so wickedly dangerous. 

_Don’t stand so close!_ His mom always yells, her voice clear and ringing in his ear. _You’ll get burnt!_

Nothing has ever felt so true. 

He feels that, here with Jonny, right now, the flame of the match, the buzz of the lit rope; waiting, waiting, waiting—so close—so close—

Patrick wants to close his eyes and feel the darkness light up like the fourth of fucking July.

Jonny’s smiling, in that small, secret way he does and Patrick feels so utterly helpless when all he can do is smile back. He wishes he couldn’t, wishes he were stronger, that he could push his hands to Jonny’s chest and shove him in the red brick wall behind them and demand _why_. He shouldn’t be able to fall so easily, but he has, hasn’t he? That’s the whole problem. He fell the moment Jonny pushed him into the mud and he’s never gotten back up. 

“Do you believe me?” Jonny asks, voice soft and small. 

Patrick’s almost pressed to Jonny, now. He feels warm, heavy and solid in his weight and Patrick wants for them to disappear into this moment, together. He thinks maybe they could. 

“What?” Patrick asks in return, because he doesn’t even know what Jonny is _saying._ He feels too trapped; in his own want, in his own fear.

“Patrick,” Jonny says, almost whispering it, “you have to believe me.”

Patrick shakes his head, it’s only small but he feels as if his curls move with him. “You have such a shit sense of humour.”

To Jonny’s credit, he looks surprised, maybe even mildly put out. “What? Patrick—I’m—”

Because Jonny’s just being an idiot, he has to be. He’s said shit like this before. Not all the time. Not often, but—but sometimes. 

Like last year, when they were only sixteen, with the cup of their local league championship under the belts and a feeling beneath their skin like they’d won it all. It was as if the cup was bigger than it was, like _they_ were bigger than they were; it felt like a different life. One where they were older and taller and _stronger_ and the cup they held in their hands was—

Patrick could see it, a life where they were together and they won it all. A city of thousands screaming at their backs and a feeling that was a little like being invincible. 

“One day,” Jonny had told him, crowding him up against the wall at Sharpy’s parents’ lake house where they were celebrating, “one day, you and me, we’re going to win the Stanley Cup together.”

Patrick had laughed. He felt like he was floating, floating high above them and simply looking down at the picture of pride they painted for one another. 

“Yeah? How’d you figure that, Jonny?”

Jonny looked so _determined,_ like he could have set them both on fire just with the mere thought. Like he could get them both drafted. Like what he was saying could be _true._ “We’re going to. I know it. I’m going to be captain and—”

Patrick laughed again, loud and right into Jonny’s face. 

“—and you’re going to win it. You’re going to score the goal that wins it all.”

Patrick—he’d—fuck. He’d like to say he did something less embarrassing than take Jonny by his sides, fisting loosely in the fabric of his old, worn out flannel and tried to—what? Pull him in closer? Stop him from ever moving away from Patrick again? The memory remains a little hazy. 

“So, basically like all our games now, huh?” 

Jonny nodded, pushing his hands against Patrick’s ribcage. It hurt, almost, but in a way that was—in a way that was _good._ “Patrick I—I—Peeks—”

“Come on, Jonny,” Patrick had grinned, tugging a little harder at his shirt, “you think you're gonna captain a big hotshot NHL team one day? How’d you manage that?”

Jonny’s eyes had been brushing over his face, like they couldn’t find a place to settle. 

Patrick felt like he couldn’t stop looking at Jonny’s lips. 

When Jonny finally spoke, Patrick could barely hear him above the noise. “I feel like I could do anything, as long as you’re with me, Peeksy.” 

Patrick had almost startled. “Jon—”

“Because it’s you and me, yeah? We can do it. Everything. All of it. We’ll win a cup, fuck—we’ll win three of them I just—you’ve always been—you’re my— _Peeksy,_ I—”

“Your what?” Patrick had asked, his voice so thick and so low. It scared him, almost, to hear the darkness in his own voice. It scared him, to see Jonny like this. Like Jonny was the one afraid. He felt like he was hurtling toward something, like on a train with no breaks and he—he was _scared._

Jonny’s hand was almost at his neck, curling there, like it was finding its way to hold his jaw. His eyes had fluttered closed, eyelashes so dark and shadowed by the barely there light of where they stood. He was—fuck—Jonny had almost been _shaking,_ this light, almost tremble and Patrick wanted to take Jonny’s hands in his own, tangle their fingers together and match their heart beats to calm them both down. 

Except, Patrick thought maybe his heart had been beating in time with Jonny’s since he was four. 

“Sorry,” Jonny had said suddenly, stepping back quickly and harshly enough that Patrick’s fingers had no choice but to slip from his shirt and let him go. Patrick had felt cold, sick almost. He felt—he felt _wrong._

“Sorry,” Jonny said again, laughing a bit, like it was all—like it was all just a _joke._

Which it was. Fuck. 

“I’m just being—”

“Stupid?” Patrick had whispered.

“Yeah.”

Jonny’s humour was so _shit._ Even if there had been this small, tiny, _nagging_ part of him that thought maybe it was something bigger than that. Maybe to Jonny it was something he was trying to say, but—but couldn’t find the words to. 

Patrick felt like words never failed him personally. But that’s how they’d always been, really. Patrick speaking a thousand words a minute just to tell Jonny how his day had been when they were apart, when all Jonny would say was, “it was okay.”

But if what Jonny says now is right, if he’s not lying, if Patrick believes him like Jonny is begging him to, then those answers to days they’d been apart would be—

Maybe what Jonny’s always wanted to say is: _I hate every moment you’re not with me._

Maybe Jonny’s been saying that all along. 

But Patrick wasn’t going to get upset by what had happened when they were sixteen, he’d so firmly accepted what Jonny had said when they were ten; they weren’t soulmates and they were never going to be. 

But things feel _different_ now and Patrick doesn’t even know when they changed. 

Maybe when all he could smell was candied apple and toffee in Jonny’s kitchen. Maybe when all he could see was stars.

Maybe he never accepted what Jonny had said when they were ten at all. 

“Patrick,” Jonny says, pulling Patrick from the space in his mind where he was beginning to spiral. Jonny still has him so _close._ “I have to tell you—”

It seems just Patrick’s luck, a real metaphor for his whole fucking life, that the school bell rings in that moment. 

It’s so loud, so _shrill,_ it almost makes them both jump. But Patrick could—he wants to find that fucking bell and pull it right from the fucking walls. All the cords. Just—just rip them right out of their socket until the damn sound stops. 

Jonny’s looking as if maybe—just maybe—he thinks the same. 

“I’ve got to go to class,” Jonny says finally and Patrick feels like the ringing of the bell, even though now it’s stopped, is rattling somewhere in his chest. “But—”

“Yeah?” Patrick breathes, a little helplessly, and Jonny’s answering smile is so _soft_ Patrick feels like he could lean forward, just enough, arch up on his toes and—

“Can we talk? I think we need to talk.”

Patrick nods, unable to do much else and god—Jonny’s lips are curved like a bow—he feels trapped in it. 

“After school we'll—just—meet me at my car, yeah?”

“Yeah, Jonny,” Patrick replies. 

Jonny’s fingers are tight when they squeeze at his wrist, just one last time before he loosens his grip and lets go. Patrick hates it when he does, feels off balance from it, like he was relying on Jonny’s touch to keep him standing. 

It feels pathetic, but Patrick’s done with lying to himself. 

Jonny looks as if he wants to say something, just one last word, but he’s shaking his head before he does. He’s smiling though, something small and soft and Patrick wants to hold onto him until he disappears. 

For Halloween one year, they both went as Batman. 

They can’t have been more than eight, still small enough for Halloween to be completely cute and not, you know, totally lame. When the thought of choosing out a costume was the most exciting time of the year and Patrick could hardly wait to eat candy in the pillow fort in Jonny’s basement until they were both sick. 

But Patrick thought, that year, it was so unfair Jonny was going to be Batman as well, ‘cause Batman was totally _his_ thing and Jonny was just a big copycat.

Normally (see: always) they went as a pair. 

Luke Skywalker and Han Solo. 

Buzz Lightyear and Woody. 

Marty McFly and Doc. 

The one infamous time they tried to go as The Cookie Monster and—well—a fucking _cookie_. 

(It was completely terrible and awful and yet somehow _both_ their moms maintain it was the cutest thing they’d ever seen and _still_ have the picture hung up in their respective living rooms.) 

((And yeah, of course Patrick had been the fucking cookie.)) 

But that year, Patrick had insisted he was Batman and Jonny had insisted he was also going to be Batman and they’d stared at each other with angry, furrowed brows and little crossed arms until Patrick had yelled, “fine, you big dumb idiot, we’ll both be Batman! But next year I get to pick _both_ our costumes!” 

Patrick can kind of admit now he probably loved Batman so much because he may have had, like, a small, insignificant (huge) crush on Michael Keaton. But hey, that was like, fairly informative to his sexuality or whatever so he still rolls with it.

Besides, he also sort of really liked seeing Jonny as Batman, too. Even if they were just little mirrors, both running through the streets with masks on their faces and capes flapping behind them, Patrick still looked at Jonny—dumb bat ears and all—and thought: he’s my hero. 

When they’d gotten back to Jonny’s that night, neither of them got out of their costume, except for removing their masks. They’d crawled into Jonny’s pillow fort, just like that, cape and all and Patrick doesn’t remember what prompted it, couldn’t tell you what caused it, but he remembers putting his arms around Jonny’s middle and burying his face so resolutely into Jonny’s chest. 

He thinks maybe it had been this dumb, scary story Sharpy had told them that night whilst they were trick-or-treating, something about a monster who ate little boys who played hockey and it was so stupid, but Patrick thinks maybe he’d been a little scared. 

Hey, he was only eight. 

“You’ll protect us, right Jonny?” Patrick had asked, muffled into the bat logo on Jonny’s front. 

Jonny had pulled his cape around Patrick’s shoulders, until it covered them both and was pulled high, high enough to cover both their faces. 

“Yeah, Pat,” he’d whispered, right into Patrick’s curls, “I’ll protect you forever.” 

It’s what Patrick thinks now, standing across from Jonny in their high school quad nearly ten years later. 

He wants to curl into Jonny’s chest, the cape of Jonny’s Batman costume drawn around them and protecting them from the world. 

He wants Jonny to hold that promise true, to protect him forever. 

He just hopes Jonny can protect him from himself. 

“Don’t miss me too much,” Patrick says, voice light and meaning for it to be a joke, but— 

But all Jonny does is smile, almost like he’s sad and so utterly serious when he says, “I will.” 

Fucking Tuesday’s. 

***

Patrick spends the afternoon so tightly wound he feels like elastic, coiled and pulled, waiting to be sprung. He can’t get out of his head, is the thing. He can’t stop playing over every possible outcome for what Jonny wants to talk to him about. It should be obvious, it should, but he feels so outside of himself. Like he’s floating somewhere, untethered and unable to piece any of it together. 

Patrick thinks maybe, in an ideal world, Jonny will say, “ _I love you, let’s be together,”_ before he presses his fingers to the inside of Patrick’s wrist, feeling the fluttering murmur of his heart beat, right through his skin. 

He wants to feel Jonny’s heart right back; press his palm right to his bare chest and feel it beat against him. 

It’s a fanciful thing. 

Problem is, even if Jonny _did_ say that, it would be a variation, at best. 

Jonny is not that eloquent. 

Or romantic. 

Probably. 

If Patrick’s imagining roses and candles and poetry he is sorely mistaken, but then—that’s never been something he wants from Jonny, anyway. It’s not who he is and Patrick loves Jonny, exactly how he is. 

Patrick’s _in love_ with Jonny. 

It feels—a lot, to think that, to admit that to himself, in fifth period geography. 

He’s hardly paying attention, he couldn’t tell you what they’re studying (something about Peru? Maybe?) and he couldn’t really care any less. Because all he can focus on, all that makes sense amongst the blur, is Jonny. 

_JonnyJonnyJonny._

Which has sort of tragically been the state of his mind ever since he was a child, but it feels clearer now. He can _define_ it. 

He wants to (needs to) clarify that whilst Jonny’s big, dumb head has always been floating around in the corners of his mind, it’s not like they’ve always been innately _positive_ thoughts _._ Because, for all of Patrick’s complete and utter patheticness and dependency, he’s also been a healthy level of pissed off with Jonny since—well—from before he can remember. 

Sometimes for no reason at all, just that Jonny’s stupid and he annoys him so those images in his mind are tinged a little red. 

It makes him smile a little, to think of it all. He hardly thinks Jonny would be offended; for all that Jonny loves him he knows no one can get under his skin, quite like Patrick can. 

It’s a gift. An honour. A _privilege._

Sometimes Patrick thinks it’s because Jonny’s perhaps doesn’t quite care about anyone else enough to bother feeling anything at all. 

It’s an odd thing to be silently smug about it, but Patrick will take it. 

_No one can annoy him the way I can._

_No one can love him the way I can._

Patrick would like to see them try. 

It’s not that Patrick _hasn’t_ known he’s been in love with Jonny forever, considering he spent half his childhood daydreaming about them being soulmates. He feels like you can’t do that without some healthy level of love, or, the understanding of love, at least. 

But once he gave that dream up (once he thought he did), he let the love he felt for Jonny shift and mould into something that felt comfortable on his heart. Something that didn’t squeeze tight and rough, reminding him every time Jonny smiled at him that Jonny wasn’t in love with him back. 

It was easier to love him as a—as—a friend? That doesn’t feel quite right. Because Jonny’s never been just that. 

Jonny knows that, too. 

Maybe once Patrick could have called the feeling _family._ He could have looked at Jonny and resigned himself to thinking of him as a brother. But even entertaining that idea now feels—no. 

Just. No. 

Besides, Patrick’s pretty sure the thoughts he has about Jonny sometimes (all the time) would be enough to have him arrested. If, you know, Jonny was his brother and all. 

Okay. Yeah. Patrick’s not making any sense, he gets that. 

And he says the word “sometimes” with an intense level of trepidation because to use it truthfully would be, in fact, a lie. 

Patrick used to look at Jonny’s body and think he appreciated it simply for what it was. But Patrick has to admit to himself, now that it’s fucking feelings hour and all, that it was more a matter of looking at Jonny’s _everything_ and appreciating it for, well, simply what it was. 

He can appreciate someone hot, just as much as the next person. He’s seventeen fucking years old, okay, he can just be hit by a particularly strong gust of wind and have to collect himself. It’s fine. Whatever. But—there’s a difference between finding someone hot and wanting to fuck them and finding someone hot and wanting them to be the only person you fuck, for the rest of your life. 

Like, Patrick’s not going to pretend just because he wants Jonny to be his soulmate that it doesn’t mean he can’t look at other people and not be particularly surprised when he gets turned on. He wants Jonny to think he’s hot and everything too, but he’d frankly find it _weird_ if Jonny said he didn’t find anyone else attractive or whatever. 

Patrick never gave much thought to his sexuality, beyond, ‘I think lots of people are good looking and I want someone to touch my dick one day.’ 

He’s not going to lie and say he doesn’t find girls hot. Because he does. And if Jessica Alba came up to him right now, in the middle of geography, and wanted to suck his dick he definitely wouldn’t say _no._

But then, if Joe Sakic _also_ wanted to suck his dick then that would be, like, totally okay as well. Although, it would probably be more him sucking Joe’s dick, as like a hero-worship thing and even then he’d probably have to beat Jonny there. 

Thing is, Patrick’s not picky. 

And that’s really all the thought he’s ever given to his sexuailty. 

Besides, he’d spent so long convinced Jonny was his soulmate anyway, so he thought that was kind of, like, that. 

It’s always been Jonny. 

He’d choose Jonny over Jessica Alba and Joe Sakic and—

He’d choose Jonny over everyone. 

And god, if he’s thinking about dick sucking right now, well, then. 

Sometimes when he’s jerking off, his go-to fantasy is imagining what it would be like to get on his knees for Jonny. He’d push him down to his bed, sinking right there to the plush, dark blue carpet of his bedroom and pushing his thighs wide. He’d have Jonny’s fingers fisting in the material of his stupid, striped comforter, the same comforter Patrick’s slept under so many times. He’d have Jonny begging for it before Patrick had barely touched him, just running his hands up those thick, large thighs until Jonny was _desperate._

God. 

That’s really _not_ what Patrick should be thinking of in the middle of fucking geography, because he should be learning about Machu Picchu, or something, not imagining what it would be like to get Jonny’s dick in his mouth as Jonny tangled his fingers in his hair and breathed out a wrecked, _“mine.”_

That’s pretty much all it takes to have Patrick biting down on his fist so Erica won’t hear through their thin, bedroom walls most nights. 

Patrick clears his throat and shifts minutely in his seat, glancing around him to remind himself where he is. Not that anyone notices, not that there’s anything _to_ notice, unless Wesley Graves in the seat next to him has learned how to read minds. He’s chewing on the end of a pencil and staring mindlessly out the window, so, probably not. 

Now is not the time to be getting hard, but sometimes Patrick thinks all he’d have to do is think of Jonny smiling at him and it would be all over. Done. Down and out. 

Which is so insanely embarrassing, but, whatever. 

Good thing Wesley Graves can’t read minds. 

Patrick read this story once—well—it wasn’t really a _fictitious_ story. It was in this old book his grandpa had given him once for his birthday, about the history of soulmates and how they originated. Honestly, it wasn’t much. Every man and his dog likes to think they’ve pinned down the history and science of soulmates, but no one really has. 

It’s sort of this universally, commonly accepted thing that some people are made for one another and that’s—

That’s it. That’s all she wrote. 

Some scientists believe every single human being has a match, somewhere in the world, some will just never meet them. Others argue that only a few, lucky people are blessed enough to have the DNA or genes or whatever to make it possible. 

Patrick sort of hopes it’s the latter. He hates the thought that everyone has someone they’re destined for, but that might not be the person you end up with. His own parents aren’t soulmates and they love each other with everything they have. He doesn't really want a reality where they shouldn’t really be together. Fuck that. Even if it is the former, his parents are fucking goals and he won’t accept otherwise. 

Everyone’s experience with it is a little different, too. Everyone’s bond a little unique and that was the best part about the book, really. The stories. The stories of how people got together, what it felt like when they bonded, what it felt like to make love. 

Those ones always made Patrick blush, when he was younger, feeling like he was reading something he wasn’t supposed to. 

But one story, one he remembers vividly, was of this couple from Scotland who could—fuck—the could _read each others minds._

Well, that was kind of it. 

The way they explained it, was that it was like they could—like they could project _feelings_ onto one another. Memories, too. That once they bonded they were able to touch one another and share thoughts, emotions, impressions. 

Patrick had never heard of anything like that before and he hasn’t since. But fuck, if it wasn’t the coolest thing he’d ever heard of. 

He remembers the first time he read it, he was only twelve, but he’d had to stop himself from running over to Jonny’s house and taking his face between his small hands and seeing if he could feel Jonny’s thoughts. He wanted to press Jonny in real close, rest against his forehead and just _try._

Part of Patrick still regrets not doing it, simply so he could have seen how disgruntled it would have made twelve year old Jonny. His favourite. 

But disgruntled or not, Patrick would have thought, would have screamed in his mind, “ _I love you, idiot,”_ and hoped Jonny could hear it. He would think of the first time he saw Jonny skate, his first goal, Jonny dressed as the fucking cookie monster, the first time Jonny told him he was proud of him, the first time Jonny smiled at him; there’s too many memories for Patrick to categorise properly, but he thinks he could reel together the highlights. 

It’s all stupid, of course. Mind reading, or whatever it is, isn’t real and Jonny’s not even his soulmate to begin with so—

But Patrick thinks, if Jonny could see his thoughts, all he would see is their faces. 

And he thinks it now, thinks of that couple from Scotland, because he wishes he knew Jonny’s thoughts. 

He wished all it would take is Jonny’s fingers against his own and he’d know everything Jonny couldn’t say. 

He just hopes that today, after school—

Fuck. 

He hopes Jonny can find the words, because he doesn’t know how much longer he can take this without snapping. 

***

Jonny’s being so annoyingly—

Normal. 

It feels like any other afternoon, really. 

He’d met Jonny by his car, leaning up against the rusted door of his ‘96 Jeep and practically vibrating out of his skin with anticipation. It’s Jonny’s stupid pride and joy, that fucking car, but not because he’s even a car person, or anything. Patrick thinks it has something to do with work ethic and working towards a goal, considering he’d put almost every penny toward it that he’d saved since he was fourteen working weekends at the rink. Jonny’s all about making it more environmentally friendly and shit, spending hours sometimes working on the engine to make it more compatible for, like—fuck, Patrick doesn’t even know. 

It’s not the point. But. Mainly Patrick’s just selfish, not ever having hidden his joy from the moment Jonny bought the damn thing. Because Jonny having a car meant Patrick also had a car, basically. 

_What’s yours is mine,_ he’d sung the first time he’d jumped into the passenger seat, right there in the used car lot the day Jonny bought it. 

Jonny had rolled his eyes and been all _Jonny_ about it, but he’s also been driving Patrick around every single day since, so. Patrick wins. 

Patrick had almost tripped over his Nikes when he saw Jonny from across the school parking lot, chatting shit with Duncs and Seabs and ducking out of the headlock Duncs tried to throw him in. It wasn’t anything new, it was all so shockingly normal, but Patrick was all but bouncing on his heels. It didn’t help that Jonny had softened when he saw him, almost like Patrick’s face—Patrick’s everything—standing next to his shitty Jeep, just like he’d done a thousand times before, was making Jonny happy. 

Seabs practically kicked Jonny away, grinning over at Patrick when he did and Duncs did some sort of weird salute and Patrick flipped them both the finger. 

But Jonny had been normal, as normal as he could be, opening Patrick’s door for him and throwing his bag on the back seat. He’d launched straight into this story about Duncs and Seabs in chem, something about a fight and a frog and something else weirdly elaborate and Patrick had just nodded dutifully as Jonny kicked the truck into gear. 

And Patrick waited. 

Jonny started talking about their upcoming game against McKinley High, about how they needed to work on their powerplay, maybe try up some new combos, try Stromer out in the first unit and Patrick had laughed out an, “ _alright, coach.”_

And Patrick waited. 

Jonny drove them back to his house, throwing his arm around Patrick’s shoulders as they walked up the drive and asked him about his day. Patrick smiled, almost nervously, which was a feeling he was so unfamiliar with around Jonny and answered as best he could. It was freezing out, and they weren’t pressed together for long, but Patrick was burning under Jonny’s weight. 

And Patrick waited. 

It’s not like he expected—

Well, he doesn’t know what he expected. 

He thought maybe Jonny was going to drive them somewhere, anywhere, and have the conversation Jonny had seemed so desperate to have, just a few hours ago. But that moment in the quad feels like a lifetime ago, like Jonny hadn’t let something start to pour out of him, just a bit, breaking down his walls and letting Patrick in. 

But—but Patrick’s never felt walls around Jonny, not really, so why are they going up now?

Patrick let’s Jonny ramble about trig homework, about how he needs Patrick’s help with econ, too, and Patrick feels soundly smug for a second at the thought Jonny needs his brilliant, big brain (self described) that he forgets what this is all for. 

For a _second._

Patrick’s sick of waiting. So sick of it. 

“You’re being quiet,” Jonny notes when they collapse down on the couch and Patrick thinks if it wasn’t going to risk some sort of serious brain damage, he would punch Jonny right in his fucking head. 

Patrick rolls his eyes, because he doesn’t really know what else to do anymore. “Jonny,” he says, just his name, but it’s layered with such thick judgement Patrick can see the blush of Jonny’s cheeks haze red. 

Jonny’s been caught out and he knows it. 

“Yeah, so,” Jonny says, sort of clearing his throat when he says it and Patrick hates this. 

He hates how far they sit from one another on the couch, like an ocean between them that Patrick feels too frightened to swim and Jonny’s nervous energy bleeding out of him in waves; Patrick hates that something has shifted between them, when nothing has even happened. 

“So,” Jonny tries again, looking at the spot just over Patrick’s shoulder, “you know you’re my best friend, right?”

“Right,” Pat nods, hating every second. 

“I think—okay, I—I don’t want to upset you. I just—”

Patrick doesn’t know why, but he holds his hand up, like he’s stopping Jonny. He is, he _has,_ because Jonny’s stopped speaking, but Patrick doesn’t even know what he’s doing but—but if he’s about to get another bullshit rendition of, _“don’t be stupid, you’re my friend,”_ he’d rather not put himself through that. 

“I get it,” Patrick says, quickly, like it’s being taken from him. “We—” he shakes his head, tries again. “I’m sorry, for being weird. Is that what you wanted to talk about? The other week, yeah? In the kitchen? I made it weird.” 

Jonny looks stunned, a little shocked, and it’s sort of infuriatingly endearing Patrick could kiss the look right off him. 

“You know I’d rather die than be without you, right?” Jonny rushes out, leaning forward slightly on the couch, like he’s angling himself closer, like he wants to pull Patrick closer. Patrick would let him. God, he would let him. 

Patrick frowns because it feels so reminiscent of what he told Erica once, that afternoon they played with dolls and she threatened to burst his magical, beautiful bubble where only he and Jonny lived. 

Jonny doesn’t give him a chance to respond. Patrick doesn’t know if he even wants to. “I know I probably don’t—I don’t really— _express_ myself, or whatever—”

Patrick snorts on a laugh and Jonny’s mouth softens, only slightly. 

“—but it’s important to me, that you know, you’re the most important thing in the world to me.”

Jonny moves closer and Patrick’s eyes drop to his lap. He pulls on the hem of his hoodie, overcome with a childish urge to bring his knees to his chest and wrap himself and his sweater around them. He knows he’s the most important thing to Jonny, he _knows_ that, he’s always known that, but it’s not—it’s not in the way he _wants._ And this feels so startlingly like a “it’s not you, it’s me” speech Patrick wants to dissolve right into the couch. 

“Patrick,” Jonny says, his voice so soft and so _close,_ Patrick hadn’t noticed how close he’d gotten. “Have you—have you ever thought about—about _us?”_

Patrick looks so quickly to Jonny it feels like whiplash. Jonny’s eyes are so wide and so sincere, so deeply brown and beautiful and Patrick’s falling into the colour of them; he can’t remember a hue of anything else. All there is, is brown. Deep and rich and wonderful and Patrick thinks he could count every dark, inky eyelash, every fleck of gold in the iris’ he memorised when he was four. 

He wonders if Jonny’s favourite colour is blue.

“Us,” Patrick says finally, almost unable to wrap his head around Jonny’s—Jonny’s—

Fucking _stupidty._

“Us,” he says again, reaching out to pull on the string of Jonny’s hoodie. It’s worn and faded and Patrick wants to chew it into his mouth. He has Jonny’s eyes on him for this. 

“From the moment you looked at me, Jonathan Toews, all I’ve ever thought about, is us.”

Jonny’s lips part on a breath and Patrick see’s a life, the life he wants, etched into every line of Jonny’s face. He sees their past, their present, and a future he _wants._ A future where Jonny’s face is the first thing he sees, every morning, where Jonny’s thoughts bleed and twist into his own and for every moment Patrick’s awake, he sees stars paint the world gold. 

Patrick speaks, before he knows how to stop himself. “I know you don’t believe in soulmates,” he tries, watching the tilt of Jonny’s jaw twitch, “but I think—that’s not what’s important for me.”

“Pat—”

Patrick shakes his head. “No. I—I just. I always used to see them as this—as this wonderful, amazing thing—and I still think that, but. I wouldn’t care if you were my soulmate or not. Because it’s you. None of that matters. I don’t care if you—if you were to touch me and nothing—fuck.”

Jonny does touch him, then. It’s only to his wrist, right over his sleeve, and Patrick looks quickly to where his hand rests; where it _holds._

“I’m scared to touch you,” Jonny says, like a secret and Patrick feels the stars in his eyes wanting to melt into something darker. “I’ve always been scared to touch you.”

Patrick hates the way his voice shakes when he speaks. “What?”

“You’ve always thought I hated the idea of soulmates, or that I don’t believe in them.”

“Well,” Patrick tries, “not—no. I just. You’ve never really been interested in them. But it’s not—it’s not that, even. It’s the fact you—you don’t love me.”

 _Like that,_ goes unsaid. But Patrick feels like he screamed it, right from the depths of his chest and the sound Jonny makes in return sounds something like pain. Part of Patrick wishes he could take that back, wishes so desperately he hadn’t said that. He feels like he’s exposed himself, left himself open raw and he doesn’t know what Jonny could say now that could fix this. 

“Patrick, I—can I—I want to show you something.”

Patrick doesn’t have any choice but to nod, to follow blindly when Jonny squeezes his wrist before he lets go and stands from the couch. He looks down at Patrick for a moment, smiling gently when he does and looking over his shoulder as if to say, _follow me._

 _Anywhere,_ Patrick wants to say. 

The walk to Jonny’s room is silent and heavy, almost thick, like Patrick could reach out and tangle the weight of the space around them between his fingers. 

Patrick doesn’t say anything when he sits on Jonny’s bed, right on top of the unmade, striped blue comforter that he thought of just this afternoon. He still has enough dignity to blush from it. He runs his fingers mindlessly over the material, the fabric cool but so completely comforting, like he can feel the warmth of where Jonny lay this morning. 

He’s always loved Jonny’s room most. From the off-white walls covered in posters of his favourite hockey players (Joe right above the bed, because, of course), to the overflowing stacks of pucks on his dresser. There’s endless pictures, everywhere, of him and Patrick and their friends; Patrick’s favourite picture is on Jonny’s nightstand, from when they won their last school championship, the cup held high above their heads and Patrick smiling at the camera like he’d never been happier and Jonny smiling directly at Patrick. 

There’s trophies and medals and books and strewn shoes and jerseys and it’s all so completely chaotic, but the window above Jonny’s desk is large and wide, looking out onto the street and has always cast the room in the warm glow of the afternoon sun; it’s Patrick’s favourite. 

It’s bright and soft and everything is so _Jonny._ The smell, the mess, the comfort of it all. 

Patrick wants to bury his nose in the pillows, crawl under the sheets and disappear into any piece of Jonny he’s allowed. 

Jonny’s looking through the bottom drawer of his desk, tossing out old text books and notebooks in pursuit of—something. He’s muttering to himself a little bit, in that distracted way he does when he’s looking for something or focused and Patrick loves him so much he doesn’t know if he can take it. 

“Ah, here,” he says finally, straightening up and toying nervously with a notebook between his fingers. 

Patrick doesn’t really recognise it and he’s not sure if he’s meant to. It looks similar to all the same blank notebooks they’ve used ever since elementary school. 

“I have about a hundred just like it,” Jonny says, like that’s meant to mean something and looks as if he’s holding his breath when he reaches out to hand it to Patrick. 

Patrick takes it, unsure what else he can do, letting the light collection of paper rest easy in his hands. 

“Open it,” Jonny almost whispers, still standing in front of Patrick at the edge of his bed and looking so completely unsure. Patrick doesn’t want to ever see him look like this again. 

Patrick let’s it fall open gently in his lap, just to the first page, seeing the words _“Jonathan Toews, 2nd Grade''_ written out in Jonny’s familiar childhood chicken scratch. 

Despite himself, Patrick smiles. “Do you keep all your old workbooks, Jonny? Are you secretly a hoarder?”

Jonny laughs, barely, this small almost self-deprecating thing and rubs at the back of his neck nervously. “Just—just look at it.”

Patrick does. He turns the pages softly, unable to help but smile at the workings of eight-year-old Jonathan Toews. There’s math equations, notes about dinosaurs with eagerly penciled exclamation marks next to them and a summary of the field trip they took to the natural history museum. 

Patrick absolutely cannot resist reading it aloud. “Today we went to the museum. I saw a dinosaur rock with bones. It was cool. Very very cool. I also saw a bird that looked scary. It was big and I asked Miss Honeyman why it looked alive. She said it was stuffed. Pat laughed at me and the bird and then he holded my hand and said sorry for laughing. That was cool too. We got to play with the dinosaur bones and Pat falled asleep on me on the bus. I had so much fun.”

Patrick laughs and grins up at Jonny. “Well, it’s riddled with spelling errors, but very cute, Toews.”

Jonny rolls his eyes a little bit, like he can’t help it, but grins right back. “I was adorable, obviously. But keep looking, believe it or not I’m not just making you look at my old school work.”

“Sure, sure,” Patrick mutters, returning to the task at hand. 

He doesn’t really get it. It’s just a lot of the same. The pages are so filled with random notes and workings that Patrick can’t really distinguish most of it. It’s like Jonny wanted to make use of every single spare space of paper, like he was personally killing the environment if he didn’t. It’s cute, sure, but Patrick doesn’t _get it._

When he’s halfway through flipping the pages, something makes him pause. It’s small, at first, like this little nagging feeling scratching somewhere at the corner of his mind. He’s getting this sense of déjà vu almost, like he’s seeing something repeated. Something tiny, almost unnoticeable, over and over and over and—

His fingers still on the page, turning it slightly in his hands and letting his fingers trace over the letters. They’re written deep, hard, like the pencil was really _pressed_ to the paper just to ensure it would be imprinted there forever. 

He traces every single letter.

He turns the page, and the next, and the next and he traces the words every time. Every time. 

He traces every. single. letter.

_Patrick Kane._

_Patrick Kane._

_Patrick Kane. Patrick Kane. Patrick Kane._

_Patrick._

_Patrick. Patrick. Patrick Kane._

Patrick’s fingers are trembling, positively shaking and there’s no way Jonny could miss it; the paper trembles with him. 

His name. _His name._ Over and over, written into the margins of Jonny’s notebook. They’re almost mindless, like they were written without any conscious thought, like Jonny had daydreamed and his dreams spilled out onto the page. 

Patrick doesn’t realise his eyes have grown wet until his gaze lands to the margin of one of the last pages of the book. He chokes on a breath, shaky and weak and his eyes are so close to stinging. 

He stares so hard he feels cross with it, like his gaze has gone dizzy and blurred and he thinks maybe it has. He feels like he can’t breathe, like he has to fight for it; he’s standing at a gas station in Illinois at age eleven, Jonny’s voice in his ear through the phone and an ache that feels only like pain and longing. 

He finds the will to touch the words, to imprint them on his heart. 

_Jonathan Kane._

_Jonathan Kane-Toews._

_Patrick and Jonathan Kane-Toews._

“I don’t want you to question how much I love you, Pat,” Jonny whispers. Patrick can barely hear him above the roar in his own ears. 

Patrick brings the notebook to his chest and clutches it so tight he feels the paper wrinkle and strain, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care about anything but this anymore. He wants to feel it forever, to mould it to his skin and soak it into his bloodstream. He feels the words there, etched right into his heart, never to be erased. 

_Patrick and Jonathan Kane-Toews._

Patrick’s crying now, he knows it, he can feel the moisture on his cheeks staining his skin wet, threatening to spill down over his chin and pool in the hollow of his throat. He hates to cry, feels sick with embarrassment from it, but that’s such a small part of himself he can’t find it in him to care anymore. He doesn’t know if the tears are happy or sad or some bittersweet mix of the two. He hates this. He loves this. 

He _loves Jonny._

Patrick’s eyes are squeezed so tightly shut, against the light, against everything, but he feels it when Jonny comes to kneel on the carpet, right between his legs. 

He almost wants to laugh, the memory of his favourite damn jerk off fantasy coming to him, their roles reversed. It’s Jonny in front of him now, Patrick sitting on the worn, striped comforter and the normality of that fantasy almost grounds Patrick. 

Jonny’s hands rest on his knees, shaking him gently and Patrick can’t remember what it feels like to breathe. 

“Please, look at me,” Jonny whispers, pleads it. He sounds—he sounds terrified. 

Patrick opens his eyes, blinking against the light and the tears, looking down on Jonny’s open, scared, wonderful, _beautiful_ face. 

“Why?” Patrick practically chokes, sniffing a moment later. He takes a second, lifting his hand to his face to wipe at his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. He doesn’t let the notebook go from his heart.

Jonny’s mouth opens and shuts again, like he doesn’t know where to begin. 

Patrick saves him from having to decide. 

“I don’t know what this means,” he says, holding the notebook a little tighter in indication, “I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”

He does. He does. But he—

“Did you change your mind? Was it just something you thought when we were kids? Something that changed when we got older? I don’t _get it,_ Jonny.” Patrick feels like he’s getting a little hysterical and Jonny just grips him tighter. “All this time, all this time. I’ve been here. Everyday. I told you I loved you when we were ten, I said we were going to be soulmates and you—and you said _no._ All those times, all those—when you told me—when you—I—Jonny, I don’t _get it.”_

Jonny rests his forehead on Patrick’s knees, breathing shallowly against the material of his jeans and Patrick doesn’t know if he’s ever seen Jonny so vulnerable. He wants to tangle his fingers in Jonny’s hair, paint his touch down his cheeks and lift Jonny’s eyes to his own. He’s angry and he’s hurt but he—he can’t lose seeing Jonny’s eyes, not now. 

Because he is angry, he is hurt, but—but he also feels on the edge of a happiness he didn’t know he was ever capable of feeling. 

As if sensing it, Jonny looks back up at him, dark eyes turned deeper in the shine of unshed tears and Patrick wants to brush his lips over his eyelids just to stop the tears from ever falling. 

“Patrick, I’ve been in love with you from the moment I pushed you into the mud and fell into your arms. I’ve never stopped. I don’t know how to do anything else.”

All Patrick can see is stars. 

“And I’m sorry I’ve never told you that. But—”

“But you’ve been showing me,” Patrick breathes, leaning forward and closer into Jonny’s atmosphere, as if he hasn’t lived there since the start. “You’ve been showing me, every day.”

Jonny’s hands are so tight on his thighs. “I should have _told_ you. I shouldn’t have—Pat, we were _ten_ and—and I was—I was so scared. Please, I—”

“Why?” Patrick pleads, “you owe me that, Jonny, _why?”_

“Because I was so scared we wouldn’t be soulmates.”

Patrick almost laughs, a shocked breath coming out of him instead. “How could you—”

“Pat, you always talked about soulmates like they were this amazing, incredible thing, like—like you didn’t think true love was real if you didn’t find your bond.”

Patrick shakes his head. “That’s not—”

“I know that’s not what you think now, not really, but especially when we were that young it was like—you wanted the fairytale and I wanted to be your fucking happily ever after but I was terrified that—” Jonny stops, takes a breath, taking one hand off Patrick’s jeans to tangle mindlessly in the front pocket of his sweater. He pulls, just a bit, and Patrick is helpless to do anything but follow. “I was in love with you, I was writing your name into the margins of my notebooks like a lovesick _fool_ and I thought, what if—what if I touched you and we didn’t—what if we weren’t meant to be together? Because, we wouldn’t have known then at ten anyway, even if we’d tried and I didn’t want to admit to you it’s what I wanted too, because what if we put everything into that feeling, into that belief?” 

Jonny’s other hand comes to his middle, in a mirror of his right, twisting in the other side of Patrick’s sweater pocket. It’s always been Patrick’s favourite, this hoodie. He loves the pocket at the front, how it lets him fold his hands together to keep them warm amongst the soft, fleecy material. He can feel Jonny’s hands meet in the middle, clasping his own fingers together; it makes the material bunch and pull and it’s like by holding himself, holding his own hands, he’s stopping himself from holding Patrick’s. 

The movement of it lets Patrick feel Jonny’s knuckles, right through the thin material of the inner pocket and grazing across his stomach. It makes his muscles twitch and tighten, as if in the anticipation that Jonny would touch him there bare. He could. Fuck, he could. He could trace his fingers right over the dips of Patrick’s abs, feel the line of each one and watch how it would make Patrick quiver. 

Patrick feels hit with this urge to put his hands in his own pocket, right alongside Jonny’s, twining their fingers together until he couldn’t make sense of who was who. He wants to feel Jonny’s hands, his fingers, his knuckles. He wants them to twist and twine in the fleece of his pocket, if only it would help calm the breath that seems to be getting trapped in Jonny’s own throat. But maybe this is what grounds Jonny. Maybe the pocket of Patrick’s sweater grounds him. 

Jonny pulls him in closer, tugging right with his own hands, right with Patrick’s pocket and Patrick feels so overwhelmed, unable to taste anything but toffee. 

“I didn’t want that to be something that destroyed us, if it wasn’t true. Because I was okay with us not being soulmates, I just wanted to be with you, but it seemed so important to you and I couldn’t—I couldn’t let you down like that—I—”

Patrick drops the notebook onto his lap to bunch the material of Jonny’s hoodie in his fingers, trying to smooth a palm over his heart. “Please, Jonny, it’s okay, it’s—”

“Fuck”, Jonny almost laughs, breathless and weak. “Sorry, I—”

Patrick wants to run his thumb over the skin beneath Jonny’s eyes, wants to do so many things he feels scattered from it, but he doesn’t know if—he doesn’t know what this means. He doesn’t know if he can touch Jonny like that. 

“I guess I thought, if I said that then—” Jonny tries, “we could just—it would come up again when we were older, but you—you never—I thought maybe it wasn’t like that for you anymore and—”

Patrick can’t help it when he punches a fist into Jonny’s chest. It’s not hard, not really, but Jonny jerks from it all the same. “You idiot!” he almost yells, he has to stop his voice from rising. He’s so glad both Jonny’s parents work late and David has soccer on Tuesday afternoons. “You absolute idiot, how could—how could you even _think_ that? I don’t know if you realised, obviously not, but—everything I do, I do it for you. You’re—you’re everything to me, Jonny. You’re—”

Jonny blinks and Patrick has a galaxy emblazoned on his heart from that one, small look. 

“You’re the love of my life."

Patrick feels light—vivid, bright, wonderful light—burning right through the tips of his fingers, through his blood, running down his spine and echoing to his toes. He feels lit up, like he’s stepped outside and into the sun, like he’s flown too close but—unlike Icarus, he’s not going to burn. He never will.

It’s warm. Hot. Stifling and thick and incredible. It’s colour, all of it, every shade, every hue, painting Jonny before him in golds and browns and yellows and in—in _light._ He wants to fall into it, paint it onto his skin; he wants to paint Jonny there. 

Jonny’s breathing like maybe all he’s seeing is colour, too. Bright, burning colour. Maybe he sees blues where Patrick sees golds. Maybe Patrick’s the ocean, the way Jonny has been the stars and maybe that’s all they’ll ever need. 

Maybe the world before this was grey. 

Which is not true. Because Patrick’s seen the palette of the sky, lit up in Jonny, well before he knew anything else. 

“I love you,” Patrick says, confident in a way he never thought he would be, when it came to Jonny, when it came to this. “I love you,” he says again, in case Jonny didn’t hear. “I love you.” That last one was just for him. Because he can say it now, he can say it to himself, to Jonny, to anyone who will fucking listen. “I love you,” he says, just one last time, just because he can. _Don’t you see that?_

Patrick doesn’t know if he jumps, or if Jonny pulls, but Patrick falls. 

Jonny’s there to catch him, always, pulling at Patrick by his front until Patrick’s arms have no choice but to throw themselves around Jonny’s shoulders. He pulls and Patrick _falls_ , they both do, Jonny’s arms around his waist as Patrick comes off the bed and crashes into Jonny. Jonny falls backward, holding Patrick to his chest when he does, tumbling to the floor. 

They land with an _oomph,_ a small laugh knocked right out of Jonny’s lungs and brushed almost across the line of Patrick’s mouth. Patrick laughs in return, something small and breathless, as if he’s the one taking the brunt of both their weight. He supposes that’s always been Jonny, really. But he still laughs, they both do, Patrick’s arms shift slightly so he frames Jonny’s face, his fingers tangling in Jonny’s hair. 

His hair is soft and warm and Patrick touches him gently, wishing so desperately to touch his face. Jonny’s so solid beneath him, his hands bunching and tugging at the back of Patrick’s sweater, like he’s trying to bring him closer but doesn’t know how. 

“Should I say it again?” Patrick asks, biting at the inside of his cheek, trying so desperately not to smile. “Just in case you didn’t hear.”

“Maybe once more,” Jonny replies, and his voice is so _small_ that it’s—it’s almost startling. 

Patrick leans back, just a bit, enough so he can look properly into Jonny’s eyes. There’s moisture there, an almost helpless wetness and Patrick feels helpless, too. It turns the colour of them dark, darker than Patrick could have thought possible. 

“Jon?” he asks, practically whispering it and it’s more desperate than he thought it would be. 

Jonny’s grip is harsh and Patrick never wants him to let go. “You’re right,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “I’ve been an idiot.”

Patrick shrugs, ‘cause like, _yeah_ , but they’re—they’re finally _getting_ somewhere and he doesn’t think he can handle another minute of it. He wants to _be_ there, feels so close to it. Each second turns brighter and Patrick’s tongue turns sweeter, building to a crescendo that feels—

Patrick doesn’t know how it feels, because it’s unlike anything he’s ever felt.

All he knows is—

It’s everything. 

“If you weren’t an idiot,” Patrick murmurs, moving closer so his lips almost graze over Jonny’s, “I wouldn’t know how to deal with you.”

Jonny smiles and Patrick wants to touch his mouth. “I shouldn’t—” he tries, shaking his head and tries again. “I should never have made you feel any less than everything you are.”

Jonny’s eyes fall closed, just for a second, before opening them again to stare up at Patrick with a sincerity he feels down to his chest, settling in every rib. “I’ve always wanted to be everything you deserve.”

Patrick thinks he can feel Jonny’s heart beat against his own. “Jonny, you—”

“I don’t know if I am.”

Patrick blinks. Breathes. Tries again. 

“What if I’m not—fuck, Patrick. What if I’m not enough?”

Patrick feels like he’s been hit, taken a slash right to an exposed wrist. It feels worse than the time he broke his collarbone, worse than those months he and Jonny spent apart when he road tripped over the country. It hurts more than the moment Jonny opened his dumb mouth and called him _stupid._ He’s so—

He’s so _angry._

“Shut the fuck up with that,” he says, suddenly and—and he sounds _terrified_ , even to his own ears. “Jonny, you—”

Jonny closes his eyes and Patrick pulls tighter at his hair. “Hey, no—look at me.”

Jonny does and Patrick pushes his body in closer. He can’t take it. Not the look in Jonny’s eyes—so unsure and small—or the words coming out of Jonny’s mouth. The _bullshit_ coming out of Jonny’s mouth. He can’t take any of it. 

“You don’t get to decide that,” Patrick says fiercely, every fibre of who he is practically _vibrating._ “You don’t get to fucking decide that, Jonny!” 

“Pat—”

“No. _I_ will decide what’s enough for me, Jonny. Is this—” Patrick falters, trying to find the words that will be _enough._ “Is this what this has all been about? You think you’re not _good_ enough for me?” 

Jonny shrugs. Kind of. Almost. It’s stilted, from the angle, from something else and Patrick’s arms move with him. He whispers when he speaks. “You deserve everything.” 

“I deserve _you_.” 

When Jonny kisses him, the world erupts in colour.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello. it is important that i say once again: i owe all of this to [toews.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toews/pseuds/toews) for all the inspiration and support and tears when i sent her this whole fic, piece by piece. if you enjoy this fic in any way, you should really thank her, not me. (candy) apple of my eye.
> 
> also thank you to everyone who encouraged me and supported me in finishing! especially thathockey and capnseriouslycanadian. you're the true first stars and i don't know where i'd be without you. 
> 
> now, please, strap in and prepare to read something so sweet it's sap with a capital S. sap, sex and soulmates. the trifecta, if you will. 
> 
> **warning:** you'll see that the rating has gone up, tags have been added and i've also slapped on an underage warning as they are both seventeen. it is, of course, completely consensual and all parties are pretty happy about it.
> 
> perhaps the most unrealistic part of it all is not the fact that soulmates are canonical, but that the sex is so mind meltingly good (for their first time). 
> 
> enjoy!

**October 31, 1994.**

“Boys, please!”

“Just one!”

“Smile, Patty!” 

Patrick doesn’t _want_ to smile. He crosses his arms and pouts angrily up at his mom. If she wants him to _stop_ then she’s just going to have to pull his arms apart, isn’t she?

It’s sort of hard to cross his arms, which is sort of annoying, ‘cause his costume is all big and—big. He can only sort of scrunch his arms up at his wrists and he hopes his mom can still tell he’s not happy. Not one bit! 

“Pat, cupcake, please smile.”

“No, mommy!” Patrick whines. “I’m not a cupcake!”

“Yeah!” Jonny chirps in from next to him, “He's a cookie!”

Patrick turns his head to pout at Jonny, his mouth angry and hard and Jonny just laughs. Which Patrick will not smile at. He will _not._ He doesn’t like his costume this year. Not one little, eensie bit. He thinks he looks dumb. But he and Jonny also worked _really_ hard on his costume, too. His dad helped them cut a big circle in two pieces of cardboard and then they painted on the choc-chips extra carefully. Patrick had painted all over Jonny’s nose after and Patrick thought he was going to die with laughter. He’d been so grumpy about it. 

But Jonny’s costume is—well—

Jonny just looks so _silly,_ too. Patrick sort of can’t help but laugh a little bit every time he’s looked at him and when he laughs it makes Jonny all happy, so. He feels like he’s really, really trying not to laugh at Jonny. 

But he looks so silly! 

Jonny throws his arms around Patrick’s shoulders and he has to put his arms kind of high when he does it, ‘cause of Patrick’s costume. Stupid costume. Jonny’s costume is all warm and fluffy and _huge_ and Patrick gets a mouthful of blue fur. It tastes yuck and all—fluffy. Yeah. _Yuck._

But Jonny’s squeezing all tight and Patrick get’s lost in him a little bit. He feels like he’s going to get swallowed up whole. 

“Jonny _,”_ he mumbles, the sound of it coming out more like _Jonnyyy,_ all whiny and irritated and he gets a mouthful of fur for the trouble. It’s so _blue._ “You’re eating me!”

“Well, duh,” Jonny says, leaning back a little bit so he can smile down at Patrick. Jonny’s still only little, too, but he still sometimes seems so much _taller._ Like. Patrick thinks if he wanted to be the same height he’d have to go up extra hard on his tippy toes. 

Jonny puts his hands on Patrick’s face, right on his cheeks and Jonny’s hands are so _warm._ He was wearing gloves earlier, with the costume, but he complained they were too itchy and it would stop him from properly eating candy. Patrick thought that was really smart. They’d already eaten _so_ much candy and it was all so yummy Patrick thought he could just die. His favourite were the candied apples Jonny’s mom had made. 

“Of course I eated you,” Jonny grins, all toothy, “I’m the cookie monster!”

Patrick scrunches his nose, trying to pout again but Jonny shakes his head and it makes the googly eyes on his costume shake and it’s so funny Patrick can’t help but burst out in delighted laughter. “You look so dumb!” 

Jonny’s eyebrows get all scrunchy, just a little bit, and he squeezes Patrick’s cheeks harder. But he’s still soft about it, in his special Patrick way. That’s what Patrick calls it. His Patrick way. Jonny’s always extra special with him, Patrick knows it. He gets all happy and gentle and he calls Patrick _mine_ and Patrick gets this funny feeling in his tummy that kind of goes all swoopy, like he’s on a boat, and it feels really nice. 

“But you’re my cookie,” Jonny says, like he’s trying not to frown, like Patrick being his cookie is really, _really_ important to him. 

Patrick sighs and Jonny instantly brightens. “Okay,” he says, laughing a little bit when Jonny moves his face in his hands as if he’s nodding. “Okay, cookie monster, I’m all yours! Your cookie!”

“Yay!” Jonny shouts.

Patrick can kind of hear his mom and Jonny’s mom laughing, but Patrick can’t stop looking at Jonny. His eyes are all big and nice and Patrick loves them extra ‘cause they remind him of his favourite chocolate. And he loves them because when Jonny looks at him, Patrick just feels so _special_ , like the colour brown belongs to him. 

Patrick thinks Jonny’s going to let go, even though he kind of doesn’t want him to, but Jonny leans forward and kisses him right on the lips. 

It’s super quick and _so_ gentle and Patrick didn’t even get to close his eyes like they do in the movies! He wanted to close his eyes. But then, if his eyes were closed he wouldn’t have seen Jonny when he did that, so he guesses it’s okay. 

He can’t believe Jonny did that! He feels all light, like he wants to float right off the floor. Which would be so cool, but he doesn’t get to find out if he floats ‘cause Jonny’s still holding him. 

Jonny’s all red in his cheeks when he pulls away, eyes almost as big as buttons and Patrick can’t help but giggle. He touches his fingers to his lips, where they feel so warm and—and _tingly._ It’s like they’re buzzing, buzzing like little bees. 

“What was that for?” he says, keeping his fingers on his lips and smiling around them. 

Jonny smiles back, just like Patrick knew he would, and he puts his thumbs right on Patrick’s dimples. “I eated you.”

“Did I taste like a cookie?” Patrick asks. He has the fur of Jonny’s costume all tangled up in his small fingers. 

“No.” Jonny shakes his head, but he still looks so _happy._

“Okay, boys,” his mom says and Jonny let’s go of his face and moves back a bit, which sort of sucks. “Let’s get a photo.”

Patrick turns back to his mom and Andrée and they’re both smiling, like they’re _also_ super happy and his mom’s eyes look kind of shiny, like how she gets when she watches this doctor TV show she really likes. Patrick’s kind of worried she’s upset, like maybe she’s going to cry and he really wouldn’t like it if his mom cried. But then she’s smiling _super_ big so Patrick supposes it’s okay. 

Jonny puts his arm around his shoulder, pulling him in nice and close and Patrick laughs extra loud when Jonny puts his mouth on the edge of his cookie costume, as if he’s really eating him and his mom snaps a picture. The flash is so bright. 

“What did I taste like?” Patrick asks a little while later, whilst their moms are still taking photos and telling them to do different, dumb poses. 

Jonny smiles at him, puts his hand right on the top of Patrick’s head and says, “You tasted like candy apple.”

When the camera flashes again, Patrick feels like it’s so, extra bright. He’s not really facing it, he’s only looking at Jonny, just at Jonny, but the flash feels like all the stars in the whole entire sky are jumping right in front of his eyes. 

***

**Now.** ****

Patrick gasps, maybe Jonny does too; the feel of it mixes together, now. Jonny's lips part on it, right against Patrick's mouth and Patrick thinks—

This is it. This is home. 

This is games won and games lost. Every bead of sweat, every cursed word shouted from sharp tongues, every single inch of determination and desire. It’s fear and joy and despair and _warmth._ It’s every missed opportunity, every failed moment; every time Patrick fell to the ice and Jonny was there with his arm outstretched and gloved hand open, right where he needed to be. It’s taking a breath, right when it’s needed most, when your lungs are stretched and tight and _empty_ and gasping until they’re full, until they’re overflowing. This is every moment Patrick’s ever wanted, melted and bonded and fused into something bright and beautiful. 

This is something wonderful. 

Jonny’s never felt like anything less than home, anywhere less than where Patrick’s always wanted to live, but this? This is forever. And fuck. Patrick’s always known Jonny would be forever—always, never doubted it—but he always doubted the way he could have it. But Jonny’s lips on his, Jonny’s _touch_ on his, is a lifetime Patrick gets to call his own. It’s a happiness he gets to call theirs. 

It’s a home they’ll build together. 

Sugar. Sticky and sweet. Something deep, sharp, like candy and toffee and chocolate and _spice_ . It’s sweet. So sweet. All of it, flavours rich and sticky and _familiar_ —Patrick tastes them on Jonny’s lips. He tastes them right out of Jonny’s mouth. He can’t get enough of it, he can’t get _enough._

Patrick shifts so his knees rest on either side of Jonny’s hips and he pulls—grips and _clutches_ —right in Jonny’s hair. It’s summer sun and winter snow. Spring flowers and leaves that crunch beneath your foot in fall. It tastes like the seasons. Like all of them. 

Jonny’s trying to say something, Patrick can feel him attempting the words on his tongue, but Patrick thinks, he spent thirteen years waiting for this, he spent thirteen years waiting for Jonny, and he never wants it to be taken from him again. Not even by Jonny and his desire to speak words. Patrick doesn’t even know how he can begin to want to _try,_ all Patrick can hear is the sound of waves and all he sees is a kaleidoscope of light. 

Jonny’s hands, his bare, beautiful, incredible hands, cup at Patrick’s jaw and Patrick feels like he’s been shocked by what can only be lightening. The good kind. The _incredible_ kind. It’s like Jonny’s shocking him from the inside out, pouring air into his love soaked lungs, right with his own breath. Patrick never wants to forget Jonny’s hands. He wants to learn them; wants to trace every line, every scar, every callous. He wants the feel of them imprinted against his own, right into the press of his fingertips, never to be lost. 

Jonny’s hands. Jonny’s mouth. Jonny’s skin. _Jonny_ . Jonny. _JonnyJonnyJonny._

Nothing has ever felt like this. Nothing will again. 

_Patrick._

Patrick surges closer into Jonny, biting down on his bottom lip and eliciting a sound Patrick wants to hear him make again and again and again. 

_Patrick._

Something pushes at him, at the edges of his mind, something small and unknown and almost terrifying. It’s unfamiliar, completely, almost like a thought within his reach that he can’t grasp. 

_Patrick._

Almost like a thought that's not his own. 

He runs toward it, not away, right to that corner of his mind that’s begging to be opened and discovered. It feels loud, jumping from a whisper to a shout and Patrick wants to fall into it; wants to disappear in it. 

_Patrick._

Patrick rips himself away from Jonny with a strength he didn’t know he was capable of, thumbs brushing at Jonny’s temples, right on his _skin._ Jonny’s eyes look wild, dark and blown and _focused_ and it’s that look— _that look—_ the one Jonny wears when he knows he has the power to hold the entire world in his hands, the power to change it and make it his own. 

Right now, all he holds is Patrick. 

His lips are soft and red, wet and bitten and _kissed_ and Patrick has to touch him there, feels like he’ll die if he doesn’t. 

His fingers are soft, shockingly gentle, tracing over the bow of Jonny’s top lip until his finger glistens from it. Jonny’s staring, but then again so is Patrick, both of them with a gaze so heavy Patrick doesn’t know how they’ll ever shift this tension. He presses his finger to the corner of Jonny’s mouth, catching there and wondering what it would feel like to have his fingers in Jonny’s mouth, to have them wrapped up in Jonny’s wet tongue. 

Jonny’s lips part when he breathes, something small and gasped catching in the sound of it and Patrick’s finger catching on it, too. 

When he speaks, Patrick’s hand follows the motion. “Patrick,” he says, deep and _wrecked_ and Patrick’s in love. He’s helplessly, hopelessly, terribly in love. 

It sounds the same, just the same as it did in Patrick’s mind, but something about it being said aloud feels more present, more _there._ It can’t. It _can’t_ be—

_Patrick._

Patrick kisses Jonny again, shocked with it, smashing his lips against Jonny’s to kiss him with a force that leaves him dizzy. It’s only quick, something he felt he _needed_ to do, and Jonny lets him have it. Of course he does. He kisses back, holds Patrick’s face like he’s falling and Patrick’s the only thing to catch him. Always. 

“Shit,” Patrick says, almost startled from how weak his own voice sounds to his ears. Jonny’s thumb brushes over his cheekbone and every drag of it feels like pure, unfiltered electricity. “Shit,” he tries again. 

“We—” Jonny starts, pulling Patrick closer to him, like he can’t help it. “We—we _did it.”_

Patrick smiles, almost unashamedly smug with it. “Hell fucking yeah we did.”

Jonny rolls his eyes but Patrick only catches the start of it, because Jonny’s pulling him in again before he can catch the tail end. Jonny can front all he fucking wants, but even with his eyes closed Patrick would still see the light that’s radiating right off of Jonny’s skin. Patrick’s absorbing it, as much as he possibly can. 

He wants to hear that voice again, to know if it’s _real,_ because he feels like they’re on the edge of something undefinable and new and _insane._

Jonny kisses like he does almost everything in his life, with a determination and ferocity like—like it’s something he can _win._ Which makes him an idiot, if he thinks Patrick’s a prize. Patrick’s never needed to be won, not by anyone and certainly not by Jonny. Because—because—

“You have me.” 

He says it aloud, right against Jonny’s mouth and Jonny licks right over his teeth for the trouble.

“You have me,” he says again, scratching his blunt nails down Jonny’s cheek, just so he’ll feel it. “You _have me,_ Jonny.” 

It feels a little nonsensical and maybe Jonny doesn’t get it, because all he does is kiss Patrick harder, pull him in tighter, like he’s desperate with it. 

Patrick whines a little against Jonny’s lips, but he hopes so vehemently it’s not misconstrued for anything less than want and maybe—maybe confusion. 

He pushes at Jonny’s jaw, enough to put a space between them that Patrick hates. 

“What?” he asks, brushes his eyes over Jonny’s face, looking for answers that he’s scared Jonny won’t tell him. Patrick doesn’t know if he’ll ever deal with Jonny being the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

Jonny sighs, small and weak and Patrick kisses the scar on Jonny’s chin to give him courage. He feels the smile Jonny returns, right against his own lips. 

“I hate—I hate that—” Jonny starts, but stops himself. Patrick frowns, because that’s not exactly a word he would ever choose Jonny to say _now._ Now, of all times. Jonny says he hates stuff all the time (missed opportunities on the ice, the first line centre of The Blues, just—well— _The Blues_ , in general—people who don’t recycle; when Patrick does better than him at Math, when Patrick does _worse_ than him at Math), Patrick’s completely used to it, but he’s not used to—to _this._ To all of it, really. But this—this— _uncertainty._

They’re fucking—holy _shit—_ they’re fucking _bonded._ They’re bonded. They’re soulmates. Jonny’s his soulmate. _Patrick is Jonny’s soulmate._ Patrick doesn’t ever want him feeling uncertain again. 

“I hate that I never made you feel like I was anything other than yours.”

Patrick forces himself not to close his eyes, but he shudders all the same. Jonny’s grip is almost bruising. 

“I should have told you,” Jonny practically whispers, “I should have told you every day.” 

“Told me what?” Patrick asks. He’s running his fingers down Jonny’s face, over his jaw, down his neck. He can’t get enough. Jonny’s skin is like a canvas, Patrick’s to paint. 

Jonny smiles, the barest hint of a turn in his lips and Patrick feels that galaxy, the one right on his heart, burst into constellations with no name. 

“Peeks, I love you.”

Maybe the constellations will be something they can name. Maybe they’re written in letters that spell them. 

_I love you._

Patrick blinks. 

_I love you._

Patrick tries to breathe, wonders if he knows how. 

_I love you._

“I should have told you when I was four,” Jonny says, his touch on Patrick turning light and soft, like Patrick’s someone he wants to take care of. “I should have told you when I was six, when I held you in my hands and called you mine.” Jonny kisses him, barely, like the promise of a kiss, right to the corner of his mouth. “I should have told you when we were ten, when you had a confidence in you that I’ve—that I’ve always been so jealous of.” His lips press harder now, like it means something. It all means something. “I should have told you that you were right, that you were brilliant, that you were amazing and incredible and fucking astounding because—because you were _right._ You were mine and I was yours.”

Patrick’s eyes feel heavy, like they’re threatening to spill again, but this time with tears that leave him feeling more whole than he’s ever been. Tears will never be something that empties him again. Not with Jonny. 

“I should have told you when I was eleven, when you called me from a gas station in Illinois and hearing your voice made me want to run away from home and get on a bus just so I could be with you. I almost did, Pat. I packed a bag.”

Patrick laughs, wet and choked and Jonny presses a kiss to the cut of his jaw. 

“I’ve only ever wanted to be exactly where you are.” 

Jonny kisses his throat, right down the line of it and Patrick knows his lips will feel the pulse of his heart.

“I should have told you when I was thirteen, when you broke your collarbone and seeing your hurt made me _sick_. I should have told you, when the thought of losing you, or even just seeing you hurt, was something that—something that terrified me. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know if I would be able to again.”

Patrick fingers curl around Jonny’s neck, holding him, needing him, taking him for everything he is. 

“I should have told you last year, when we won the championship. Having you in my arms, felt better than the cup. Looking at you feels better than the cup. Having you look at _me_ feels—feels better than anything. I—I almost told you, at Sharpy’s. I almost _touched_ you.”

“You said,” Patrick whispers, caught in the light of it all, “you said, ‘you’re my—’ your what? What, Jonny? _Please._ ”

Jonny’s eyes say everything, Patrick thinks he knows the answer before his lips even begin to move. But the sound of it, to _hear_ it, rattles at Patrick like a storm, like a hurricane he wants to be trapped in.

“You’re my forever.” 

Forever meant nothing, before now. 

“I should have told you I loved you, every day. I wrote my name as Jonathan Kane because all I’ve ever wanted, was to be your forever too.”

“Oh Jonny,” Patrick breathes out, unsure of where his lips fall first. Jonny’s cheek. His nose. His temple. Right at the seam of his lips. He can’t get enough. He can’t stop. “Forever. Always. Forever.”

Patrick’s not expecting it when Jonny rolls them over, the force and strength of it hardly a surprise but still shocking him with a knocked out breath when he lands right on his back, pressed deeply into the dark grey rug. He holds at Jonny’s shoulders, like he’s bracing himself, but Jonny’s still got him so _close,_ so tight. 

Jonny kisses him with everything he has and Patrick takes it, all of it, drinking at Jonny like he’s starved. He can’t stop when he finds his legs at Jonny’s waist, wrapping them there like vines and using the leverage of it to pull Jonny so firmly and roughly down into him. They both groan, choked up with it and Patrick realises—Patrick thinks—

_Oh shit._

Patrick’s been hard since—fuck—he doesn’t know. Maybe when he fell into Jonny and landed into him, into his everything, right into the floor. Maybe when he pulled Jonny’s hair and Jonny moaned from it, like he wanted it pulled _tighter._ Maybe from the way Jonny’s lips touched his, fierce and gentle and strong and full of promise. Maybe it was when Patrick saw sparks, bright enough to light up the dark. Maybe it’s always been Jonny, regardless of anything and everything else. Only Jonny. 

He was conscious (in a semi detached sort of way), that Jonny had been hard beneath him, too. It would have been impossible to miss, with how Patrick had pushed and Jonny had pulled him closer, like they were trying to forget who they’d been before as two separate halves. But now—now it feels _there_ , like it’s tangible and it’s real and yeah, Patrick’s a fucking teenager who wants someone to touch his dick just as much as the next guy but—but he can’t help but feel like this is a further extension, or further proof, of Jonny’s want. Of Jonny’s want for _him._ So yeah, Patrick wants to touch his dick, wants to know what it would feel like in his mouth, right on his tongue, wants to know— _shit—_ wants to know what it would feel like _inside_ of him. But—but even perhaps just the knowledge that Jonny wants him at all, to have proof of that, is enough. 

But fuck knowledge. Patrick’s always been more of a hands-on learner. 

Patrick’s hands run down Jonny’s front, bunching in his sweater and wishing it would burn right off. Now that he can touch Jonny, now that he can touch his _soulmate—fuck—_ he wants to spend hours touching Jonny’s skin. He thinks he could. Stretch minutes into hours, hours into days, however long it took for Patrick to know what every inch of Jonny’s bare skin felt like, right against his own. 

Now seems like a good time to start. 

When his fingers reach Jonny’s belt he pauses, the metal cool against his thumb and daring him to make the next move. 

_Come on._

Patrick shakes his head at the voice, unable to tether it to something that comes from his own mind. He’s not sure, wants to move closer to it, but there’s time. There’s all the time in the world. 

“Can I?” he asks, hardly tentative about it. 

Jonny laughs, like he can’t believe it’s even a question. “Can you what?”

Smug fucker. He’s so lucky he’s the love of Patrick’s fucking life.

Patrick glides the belt out of the buckle, emphasising the _tug_ of the bar when it comes apart. Jonny jumps, Patrick can feel it in his abs, and he grins when he bites a kiss to Jonny’s jaw. “I dream about you fucking me,” he says, like it’s nothing and Jonny’s body, his whole fucking body, shivers. “I dream about blowing you, about getting you right in my mouth and having your fingers in my hair when I do.”

“Fuck—Patrick—”

“I dream about fucking _you._ Your _ass_ Jonny, it’s fucking criminal. Want my dick in there so bad.”

Jonny presses down closer into him, he _falls_ and it traps Patrick’s hands between them, right on the button of his jeans. He’s looking at Patrick like he’s someone he can’t believe, honestly Patrick can’t really believe himself much right now either, but all he can do is bite down on his bottom lip in a grin. 

“Do you think about me too?”

He means it in a way that’s light, the intention fun and teasing and a desperate desire for Jonny to use that filthy mouth of his, but Jonny looks—he looks so intent—deep—like he’s feeling everything and he’s feeling it all at once. Patrick’s smile goes soft, tilting his head a little in question and tightening his legs on Jonny’s hips. 

Jonny runs his fingers down his face, right over the bridge of his nose and pressing his thumb to Patrick’s parted lips. It’s like he’s lost in getting to touch Patrick, in getting to touch Patrick like _this_ and fuck—fuck, Patrick can relate.

Jonny leans in to brush his nose at Patrick’s cheek, just a light knock before he levels Patrick with a look that feels like a star, exploding into atoms. “Yes,” he says, like it's the simplest thing he’s ever had to answer. “You’re all I think about, baby.” 

Patrick feels himself go still, like the blood flowing through him has run—fuck. Not cold, certainly not cold. He feels blazed, lit up from the inside out and he doesn’t know if he remembers what winter feels like anymore. He never knew that was something he wanted Jonny to call him until he did, until _now_ , but fuck—Patrick wants to hear him say it forever. He wants to _be_ Jonny’s baby, forever. 

He doesn’t care what that means. What that says. Maybe that’s what he wants. 

Jonny smiles, a small, secret thing like he _knows_ , like he knows what it does to Patrick. “ _Baby_ ,” he says again, practically whispering it, right along the line of Patrick’s lips. “My baby.”

Patrick flushes, feels it almost to his neck, and presses his lips to the corner of Jonny’s mouth. “Fuck, how much are you going to start calling me that now, huh?” He aims for a chirp, but fuck it, he misses by a mile. 

“For as long as you’re my baby,” Jonny says simply. 

_So, forever._

Jonny smirks, like he read the words right from Patrick’s mind. 

Patrick doesn’t know why, but they both laugh when Jonny kisses him again. It’s a joyous, light thing, like the happiness is bubbling out of them and into each other. It’s nice. Shit, it’s more than nice, and Patrick loves the feel of it on his tongue. 

Patrick’s hand hasn’t moved from the space it’s been trapped, caught right between his middle and Jonny’s front and his hand flexes when he runs his knuckles over the soft material of Jonny’s sweater. He digs, just a little, right at the spot below Jonny’s navel and the sound Jonny makes into in his mouth is fucking wonderful. 

“Shit, Pat,” Jonny breathes, right on his lips and Patrick wants to bite him. “You gonna touch it?”

Patrick laughs again, but he desperately hopes Jonny doesn’t think it’s _at_ him. “Maybe,” Patrick answers lightly, “if you get off me just a fucking bit.” 

Jonny rolls his eyes, he’s so close the movement is inches from Patrick’s gaze, like one lean forward and the ink of Jonny’s eyelashes would brush against his own cheek. 

Jonny puts his hands either side of Patrick’s head, digging right into the carpet and leans back enough to put light between them. Patrick kind of hates it, not feeling Jonny’s chest crushed against his own, but he thinks maybe he’s going to love what comes next even more. 

He pulls at the hem of Jonny’s sweater, dragging the material up his stomach. “Take this off,” he says, “want to touch you.”

Which is true, so true, in every single which way Patrick means and he thinks Jonny gets it. He thinks Jonny feels it, too. 

When Jonny sits back he gets his ass rested right on Patrick’s thighs, the weight of him pressing and _there_ and Patrick feels his dick jump right in his fucking jeans. “Ah, fuck,” he sighs, caught right in the trap of Jonny’s grin as he watches his face disappear, just for a second, as he discards his sweater. 

Jonny’s—he’s fucking beautiful. Patrick’s been so used to seeing his body, conditioned himself not to look with _want_ and the realisation that he doesn’t have to hold back anymore, that he doesn’t have to pretend, settles this heady, dizzying feeling right in his gut. His fingers act on impulse, reaching out to draw a line down Jonny’s chest, right to his abs and the twitch of muscle is electrifying. 

Jonny’s hand clasps over his own, fingers tangling right over his sternum and he _holds_ Patrick there, holds them both. 

“Always wanted you to look at me like this,” Jonny says, and the depth of his voice is enough to have Patrick dragging his eyes off Jonny’s body and to his face. He looks—open. Completely open and beautifully sincere. 

“Like what?” Patrick asks, pressing his thumb into Jonny’s bare skin. 

“Like I’m someone you want.”

The breath that rushes out of Patrick seems to sink right into Jonny, Patrick can feel it in the sharp intake of his chest. “Shit, Jon,” he says, curling his other hand over Jonny’s thigh, digging into the material of his jeans, “always.”

Jonny smiles, soft and happy and—shit, Patrick wants to kiss him. He sits up, or he tries, using his leverage on Jonny’s thigh, but before he can reach his mouth Jonny grabs him by his hoodie and manhandles it so quickly and so roughly over Patrick’s head, Patrick barely has a second to register what even just happened. 

He blinks up at Jonny, slow enough that his eyes feel like they’re heavy and Jonny runs a gentle hand through his hair. It’s a mess, Patrick’s under no false illusions; Jonny’s rough pull of his hoodie leaving his curls a wild disaster. 

But Jonny’s looking at him like there’s nothing he’s ever seen that he loved more. 

“Me too,” Patrick says, curling a hand around Jonny’s waist to keep him close. Jonny raises an eyebrow in question and Patrick smiles. “Wanted you to look at me like this.”

Jonny kisses him, all tongue and teeth and Patrick takes him for everything he’s worth. It’s maybe not comfortable, Jonny’s weight and muscle right in his lap, half sitting up, half _held_ up by Jonny’s grip on the back of his neck, but—Patrick’s never been so comfortable. 

He starts pulling mindlessly at the belt loops of Jonny’s jeans, pushing them down, dragging Jonny forward, he’s not sure, too lost in the taste of Jonny’s mouth, but he knows without a shadow of a doubt, he wants them _off._

Patrick’s under no false illusions that either of them really have much experience. With sex, sure, but with anything else as well. Patrick’s sort of thankful, in a roundabout sort of way. Experience, for either of them, but in this instance for _Jonny_ , would imply Jonny had been with anyone else and Patrick’s not exactly cut from the jealous cloth—but. It doesn’t make him mad, the thought of Jonny being with anyone else, ‘cause Jonny sure as fuck can do whatever the hell he wants—but—but it sure as fuck makes Patrick mighty sad. 

There’s always the chance Jonny has fooled around, more than Patrick knows, but Patrick’s also been living comfortably in the pocket over Jonny’s heart and mind since they were kids and Patrick doesn’t think there’s anything about Jonny he doesn’t know. 

Jonny would have told him. He did the first time he kissed Cynthia Liu, right under the bleachers during a football game when he was fourteen, like a fucking high-school cliche. He’d been all fucking chipper about it, bouncing on his heels when he found Patrick and their friends after the end of the game, hanging around the school parking lot waiting for Seabs’ mom to come pick them up. His lips were kissed red and spit-slick, bitten and puffy and his hair a fluffed mess. It was a good look on him. 

He’d thrown an arm around Patrick’s shoulders the minute he got there, leaning into his side and grinning like a damn cat. 

“What’s got you all happy, dude? Where’d you get to?” Patrick had asked, right as Jonny’s chin had rested on the top of his head. 

“Just having a chat with a friend.”

Patrick couldn’t see him, not from the way Jonny had him pulled too tight against his side, but he could practically feel the smile on Jonny’s face. 

The boys had chirped him, because of course they did, all their suggestions as to where Jonny was and with _who,_ more outlandish than the last; Sharpy had suggested Jonny had been making out with the principal, Mrs Horsham, who was about a hundred and always smelled like cats. 

Jonny had punched Sharpy in the chest for the trouble, but not hard enough to jostle Patrick from under his arm; Jonny’s fingers were pressed against Patrick’s shoulder, his grip tight and _there_ , right through Patrick’s sweatshirt. 

It wasn’t until later, almost horizontal and head rested back on Jonny’s chest on the couch of his parents basement, three rounds into a Mario Kart tournament and Jonny trying to play with his arms around Patrick’s middle, that he told him the truth. 

“Cynthia,” he’d said, easy and calm. 

“What? What’d she do?”

“I kissed her.”

“Oh.”

Patrick felt like he could feel Jonny’s heartbeat, right through his chest. 

“Yeah.”

Patrick focused on the screen, tried to avoid the curse Jonny’s character had dropped on the road; tried to avoid it destroying him. 

“That’s cool, man,” Patrick had said finally, moving his head to the side so his nose bumped purposely against Jonny’s chest. He was wearing his favourite Avalanche hoodie, warm and worn and faded all over. The Avs were trash, Patrick reminded Jonny of that almost daily, but it didn’t stop Patrick from wanting to steal the sweater from him all the same. 

Patrick laughs at the memory, right into Jonny’s mouth and Jonny smiles against him in return. 

“I wanted to steal that Avs sweater you always wore,” Patrick says, biting Jonny’s bottom lip. 

Jonny fumbles with the buckle of Patrick’s belt, yanking down the fly. “Patrick,” he grins, “you _did_ steal it.” 

“Oh. Yeah.”

It’s so—easy. It’s all so easy. All of it. Jonny laughs into Patrick and Patrick laughs into Jonny, effortless and light and Patrick loves him. He loves him so much. 

“There hasn’t been anyone else,” Jonny says, lifting off Patrick enough to push his jeans down off his hips; they bunch at his thighs, tight and trapped. 

Patrick’s fingers trail over the band of Jonny’s boxers, pulling gently at the elastic. He doesn’t need to ask what Jonny means, he _gets_ it, his unsaid question and fears answered so simply. It’s crazy, possibly insane to even assume Jonny can read his thoughts, but—

“Me neither,” Patrick smiles, uncaring in the face of that not being _cool_ or whatever the fuck. He knows almost all their friends hook up, locker room brags about pretty girls who let them touch them (for some god foresaken reason, considering they’re all heathens) and half of them in fucking relationships already anyway. He knows there’s an expectation, that maybe he should have done more than fumbled make-outs at parties with girls he didn’t really want to kiss in the first place. But—

Patrick’s no stranger to sex, or what he wants from it; he’s spent half his life wanting to be where he is right now. Right here, with Jonny. 

Jonny takes both of Patrick’s wrists, circling his fingers around the skin gently, thumbs brushing over the fine bone. He brings his hands to his face a second later, kissing the soft skin on the inside of each wrist, right on the vein. 

“Love your hands,” Jonny says quietly, lips pressed to the base of Patrick’s right thumb. 

Patrick grins. “Want them on you?”

The flush on Jonny’s cheeks raises, deep and almost scarlet; it’s fucking wonderful. 

Patrick leans back on his elbows when Jonny lets go of his wrists, biting down on his bottom lip in a grin when Jonny’s thumbs hook in the band of his boxers, right where Patrick’s hands had been. _No time like the present,_ Patrick thinks and Jonny laughs, almost like a response. 

Jonny pushes down his boxers in the space it takes to release a breath, the air coming out of both of them. He tucks them right under his balls, not bothering getting them off further than that, and Patrick doesn’t know why but he thinks it’s sort of fucking hot. It’s also completely fair to assume that everything Jonny does, or could do, is sort of fucking hot also. So. 

Patrick can hear the audible _click_ of his own throat, loud and echoed in the silence, unmistakable for anything other than pure, unfiltered want. Jonny’s dick is—fuck. Patrick wants to touch it. He wants his hands on it, curled in his fingers, heavy in his palm. He wants to feel it in his mouth, right on his tongue, the heavy, long weight of it warm and wet. God, he wants it _in_ him, taking him apart inch by inch, until Patrick can’t remember the feeling of anything else. 

“Fuck, Jonny,” he says, breathless and wrecked and he has to put his hand on himself, squeeze right over the heavy line of his dick, just to release the pressure. 

Jonny’s weight is so heavy on his thighs, his legs will be dead soon, but he’s far enough back that he’s not touching Patrick’s dick. Patrick wants to pull him closer, get that ass on him, feel Jonny grind right over his jeans until they both come from it. 

Patrick could. Fuck, he easily could. 

“Thought you were going to use those hands, eh?” Jonny’s a little breathless when he speaks, softening the chirp; weakness laid out bare like a bad hand of cards. 

Patrick smirks. “Yeah, Jonny.”

The sound Jonny makes when Patrick gets a hand on him is something Patrick thinks he wants to have played on loop in his mind for the rest of his life. It’s breathy, almost a whine, shocked and light and pulling Patrick right in by the thread in his chest. 

The only dick Patrick’s ever had his hand on is his own, and Patrick’s so caught up in the thought of that, just for a second, that it makes his touch is more exploratory than anything else. He trails his fingers up the length of it, right from the base until his grip circles at the flushed, already wet head. Jonny almost groans when Patrick tightens his grip, tunneling his hand into a tight fist, perfect for Jonny to fuck into. 

“Come on,” he whispers, looking up at Jonny’s flushed, wide-eyed face and wanting to kiss him all over. “Want you to come on me.”

Jonny almost buckles forward, dropping his hands to Patrick’s waist and _pushing;_ pushing him right into the carpet. “Shit,” he tries, hips rocking forward, jeans catching right on Patrick’s thighs. 

Patrick squeezes tighter, running his thumb over the sticky head and collecting the pre-come there, using the glide of it to meet Jonny and the grind of his hips, the two of them working together in perfect tandem. Just like they always have. 

He gets his other hand on Jonny’s ass, digging his nails through the material of his boxers, letting it bunch as he drags Jonny closer. Jonny’s hands on him leave him breathless, knocking the wind right out of him with every push, but shit, he’d be breathless enough, just with Jonny’s beautiful dick in his hand, pulling them both right to the edge. 

“Love you,” Patrick says, catching Jonny’s eyes. They’re so wide, almost completely black and Patrick feels trapped in them, like floating through the inky, onyx-black of space. “Love you, come on, do it.”

Pleasure bursts through Patrick, through a part of his mind that feels new and exposed. He can’t place it, doesn’t know if it feels like his own. He does feel pleasure—pleasure of his own—that much is not in question, but this feels _new._ Almost foreign and yet completely at home. 

“Love— _fuck_ ,” Jonny moans, right when Patrick flicks his wrist just right, “love you too.”

Jonny’s hips move so deep and with so much purpose, Patrick can almost picture this is what it would be like to have Jonny riding him; to have his cock deep in him, hot and tight and _perfect_ whilst Jonny splayed his hands on Patrick’s front, holding him down. 

His dick jumps beneath his jeans, trapped and uncomfortable and if Patrick doesn’t get some friction on it in the next sixty seconds he thinks he might scream. But—but Jonny. Fucking amazing, perfect Jonny, with his pretty dick red-hot and jerking in Patrick’s palm. He’s so close, so close, and Patrick wants to drag it out of him. 

“So hot like this,” Patrick breathes, digging his nails deeper into the covered flesh of Jonny’s ass. “Want to see you ride my dick.”

Jonny moans, deep and loud and Patrick grins. “That what you want, Jon? Wanna come on my dick?”

_Yesyesyesyes—_

The words chant through Patrick, behind his eyes, lit up right behind the lids. The rush of heat that follows feels immense, blistering and bright and consuming and Patrick can't even catalogue it, can’t even make sense of the sun that pours through his skin because Jonny’s coming, coming and coming in thick, hot ropes right up Patrick’s chest, his stomach, all fucking over him. 

“Oh _fuck,_ fuck—” Jonny breathes, eyes screwed shut and hips stuttering right in Patrick’s grasp. “ _Patrick—_ fuck—”

Patrick can confidently say he’s never fucking seen anything hotter; the way Jonny’s dick jumps, the way he whines when Patrick keeps his grip tight, just enough to wring it out of him, every last drop. He eases off a moment later, let’s his hand go loose, brushing his fingers along the bone of Jonny’s hip instead. Jonny looks incredible, all red and fucked out and _blissful_ and he’s breathing so hard Patrick can almost see the indents of his ribs when he sucks in a breath. 

Patrick did that. He _did_ that, he put that look on Jonny’s face and he wants to come just from the thought of it. 

Jonny moves his hands to slide his thumbs through the come on Patrick’s stomach and Patrick sucks in a fluttered breath at the feel of it. It makes his belly dip, Jonny’s hands going with it and Patrick thinks he might be fucking leaking through his boxers at this point. 

“God,” Jonny says finally, lips so red, “you watch too much porn, dude.”

Patrick’s laugh feels startled out of him, caught right in the cut of Jonny’s grin. “What?” he asks, gripping at Jonny’s hips. 

“No _way_ you didn’t get those lines from some video.”

“Hey, fuck you, you liked it.” Which is so obviously an omission, but whatever, because Jonny _did_ and Patrick fucking meant what he said, Sean Cody be dammed. 

Jonny smiles, ducking down to press his warm lips to the line of Patrick’s jaw. “You’re right.”

“Obviously.”

Patrick smiles into the kiss Jonny gives him, biting at his bottom lip. It’s nice, Jonny all come-dumb and easy with it. Nice for _him_ maybe, that he just got off; Patrick’s so hard he could pound fucking nails. 

Jonny lets his teeth drag across Patrick’s jaw, lingering down over his neck as he shifts lower down his body. Finally, _finally,_ letting up his weight on Patrick’s thighs. Thank God. Except—the minute he moves, the minute Patrick feels weightless again, he misses it. Jonny’s weight has felt like a limb, _Jonny_ is a limb and it’s startling to have it gone. 

But it’s okay, it’s alright because Jonny’s crouching down between Patrick’s legs, curling his fingers around the waistline of his jeans and when he looks up through his lashes, eyes dark and _happy_ , Patrick thinks the view is pretty fucking wonderful.

“Want me to get my mouth on your cock?” Jonny grins. Little shit. “Get your dick all wet? Wanna fuck my mouth, baby?”

Patrick snorts, completely tempted to hit Jonny over the head. Because Jonny’s teasing him, obviously, throwing out the worst porn one-liners he can think of but—but Patrick’s dick fucking _twitches_ , right beneath his boxers, inches from Jonny’s face and they’d have to be both blind to miss it. Because yeah, Jonny’s such a shit and he’s _talking_ mad shit but—even the _suggestion_ of Jonny’s words—he—Patrick— 

_Fuck_. 

“Thought so,” Jonny murmurs, lips almost in the line of a smirk as he parts the already open fly of Patrick’s jeans. He presses his open mouth to Patrick’s boxers, mouthing at the hard line of his straining dick and Patrick just tries to _breathe._

“Jonny,” he says, like a warning. “You—you gotta—” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jonny breathes, running his nose over Patrick’s still covered cock. Freak. God Patrick loves him. 

Jonny sits back to push his jeans and boxers further down his legs. Patrick can see him deliberate just for a second before he takes them off completely, leaving him naked between Patrick’s legs. Patrick whistles in appreciation, trapping his tongue between his teeth in a grin when Jonny rolls his eyes. 

Patrick’s grin drops the second Jonny gets his hands on him, grabbing his jeans and boxers and practically fucking yanking them down and off his hips. Patrick lifts up out of instinct, letting Jonny manhandle his clothes off him like they’re personally offending him and Patrick tries not to kick Jonny in the face in the process. Even if he would sort of deserve it. 

The rush of air over Patrick’s now bare cock makes him whine, deep and sharp in the back of his throat. Jonny’s eyes on him are hungry, like he wants to eat Patrick alive and Patrick lets his legs part, spreading them and letting his knees drop, just under the attention alone. 

Jonny’s hands settle on Patrick’s thighs, pushing them apart a little wider and Patrick sighs happily at the stretch. It feels good, _great_ even, and he thinks he might legitimately come the second Jonny gets his mouth on his dick. He puts his own hands on his middle, laughing when he feels Jonny’s come there, trying not to frown at the way it feels on his fingers. He can’t help it though, it seems only right, to bring his hand to his face and suck his fingers into his mouth.

He grins up at Jonny when he does it, watching Jonny’s half-hard cock swell a bit, totally fucking ready for round two. _Patrick_ is ready for round two and he hasn’t even come yet. Fuck. 

Jonny’s come tastes alright, sort of exactly how Patrick was imagining; salty and a little sharp, wanting to stick to his tongue. 

Patrick almost chokes on his own fingers when Jonny ducks down and wraps his lips around the head of Patrick’s cock. There’s no warning, none, just tight, wet, _wet_ heat and pressure and Patrick’s hips come jerking off the floor. Jonny murmurs around him, pressing his thumbs deep into Patrick’s hip bones to keep him still. 

Fuck. _Fuckfuckfuck._ Patrick’s confident that Jonny’s never sucked a dick in his life, and neither has Patrick, so he doesn’t exactly have some mark of excellence to grade it in the experience of Best Blowjobs Ever—but—holy fuck if it’s not one of the best things Patrick has ever felt in his life. 

“Jonny,” he moans out, getting his fingers out of his mouth, just to be loud. “Jonny, _Jonny.”_ He says it like a mantra, over and over until the words are getting all tangled up on his own tongue. 

He can’t help but pull at Jonny’s hair, fingers spit and come-slick but he doesn’t care. Jonny obviously doesn’t care, either, evident in the way he lets out a deep groan around Patrick’s dick, louder when Patrick let’s his grip _pull_. Fucking mental note to save for later. 

Patrick’s not going to last, he’s really not, not with the way Jonny’s testing how deep he can take him, wet and messy and a string of spit dripping down Patrick’s cock. It’s hot, it’s so fucking hot and Patrick’s abs tighten in anticipation of the wave of blinding pleasure. 

Jonny’s spine is dipped, curved in the perfect arch and it puts his ass right out on display. Patrick doesn’t think Jonny’s even conscious of it, if he’s even aware that he looks like something straight out of those videos he’s chirping him for watching but—but fuck. He’s moaning around Patrick’s dick, hot and tight and ass out and it’s—it’s _Jonny._ It’s Jonny. That’s the whole fucking thing. He could be doing anything and Patrick would be floating, drifting around up in space, completely gone. 

“Fuck—Jonny—I’m gonna—” Patrick tries, thumbs pressed to Jonny’s temples. 

Arousal and approval and _heat_ burst through Patrick’s mind, mixed so loudly with his own mirrored want and that’s—

That’s it. That’s all she wrote. Patrick’s _done for._

Patrick’s vaguely conscious of that fact he’s speaking, but it would be bold to assume he can hear anything, that’s he’s conscious of much else beyond the roar between his ears, rattling right in his skull. It feels different from the first kiss, the first _touch_ , something equally as intense and powerful and wonderful and—everything. Patrick’s feeling _everything._

And Jonny’s swallowing, Patrick’s come in his mouth and Jonny’s fucking _swallowing._ He’s trying, at least. Coughing a little, some of it getting on his chin as he tries. But—

Fuck. _Fuck._

Patrick thinks he might be telling Jonny how amazing he is, how fucking incredible he is, how he’s hot and beautiful and has the best fucking mouth in the world, that he loves him more than he’s ever loved a thing but—but he might only be saying “ _fuck,”_ over and over, hoping the same message rings true. He can’t be sure. 

Jonny’s mouth comes off his dick with a wet pop and Patrick opens his eyes to see it, transfixed by the string of saliva that runs from Jonny’s plush, red lips to the rosy-red head of his softening dick. When it snaps, Patrick lets out a breath. 

“Fuck,” he says finally, running his fingers through Jonny’s short, soft hair. “Jonny—that was—”

Jonny drops a kiss to his middle, just below his navel and it’s so soft and fucking tender that Patrick has to grip at Jonny’s hair a little tighter, just to cope with it. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Patrick says finally, the words rushing out of him without thought or sense. Which isn’t true, because it’s maybe all Patrick’s thought about since he knew what it meant to look at Jonny and see _sex_. 

Jonny lips part against his skin, breath hot and quick and Patrick would flinch at how tight his hands grip, if he didn’t love the feel of it so much. 

He looks up at Patrick a moment later, hands still tight and chin rested on Patrick’s middle. “Patrick—” he starts, caught off guard by the sound of his own voice. It’s thick and rough, layered with the evidence of what he just did and Patrick’s fingers scratch lightly across his scalp. 

“Patrick,” he tries again, “I—are you—”

“Don’t ask me if I’m sure,” Patrick says, “don’t ask me that, Jonny.”

Jonny nods, tilting forward to kiss Patrick’s sternum. “I know,” he says softly. “I—”

“You want to, right?” Patrick says quickly, suddenly—perhaps _unsure_ isn’t the right word, but he feels nerves flit around the base of his spine. 

Jonny relaxes the arch of his back, moving tighter between Patrick’s legs and using the position to fold himself easily down and around Patrick’s body. Patrick loves how big he is, he always has, even if he’s so weakly protested that he hasn’t all these years. Jonny blankets him, completely, and Patrick feels tethered again, right here in this moment, with Jonny. He can’t help but let his legs tangle loosely around Jonny’s hips, dragging him in closer. It brings Jonny’s mouth back to his, so close to take. 

“Patrick,” he whispers, right over the line of his parted lips. There’s still come there, right on his chin and Patrick doesn’t _care._ “Patrick,” he says again, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I—yes,” he exhales, heavy. “Of course, _yes.”_

“Cool,” Patrick responds, easy. He takes the kiss Jonny gives him gladly, tasting himself on his tongue. “No time like the present, eh?”

Jonny laughs, running his thumb over the high line of Patrick’s cheekbone. “ _Now?_ Are you serious?”

Patrick shrugs. “Why not?”

“I—” Jonny tries, shaking his head slightly. “We’ve only just—don’t you want to—”

Patrick lets his hands frame Jonny’s face, smiling up at his worried expression. He knows what Jonny’s trying to say, even if he’s too dumb to say it. “Jonny, I don’t want to wait. I’m done with waiting.”

“But—”

“We don’t have to, not yet, not if you don’t want, but—fuck, Jonny. I’ve been yours, forever.” 

Jonny smiles and Patrick loves the feel of it under his hands. 

“So, no. I don’t think we need to wait, or date or whatever it is you think you’re doing to save my virtue—’cause—we’ve been dating, haven’t we? Our whole lives. You’ve been mine, my _whole_ life and I—I don’t want to wait anymore, got it?”

Jonny’s lips press gently to his nose. “On that logic, we’ve really been playing the long game, haven’t we? I should have put out _years_ ago.”

Patrick rolls his eyes but huffs a laugh all the same. “Yeah, Jonny,” he says, tone edging into something a little too serious. “You really should have.”

*******

Jonny’s got three fingers in him when Patrick thinks he might die. 

He grants that’s a wild statement, maybe a little sensational, but Jonny’s got his fingers at this angle, arched and curled just right and Patrick feels like all the oxygen from the earth's atmosphere has dropped and diffused around them. 

He feels suffocated in it, breathless and a little wild and all he can do is grip at Jonny’s biceps from where he’s hovered above him, hard enough to leave marks. 

Jonny had insisted they move this show to the bed, which he hardly needed to insist upon; Patrick’s back was fucking killing him on the floor. But. Patrick would have spent an eternity with Jonny, right there on the carpet, if that’s what he wanted. 

They didn’t stop touching each other the entire time, even when they got up off the floor and Jonny was stopping himself from picking Patrick up and curling him into his arms. Jonny was revelling in the feel of Patrick’s skin like he’d been starved of it, all these years. 

Patrick simply touched because he could, because running the tips of his fingers down Jonny’s bare arm made him feel—alive.

Jonny had wanted to throw him down on the bed, Patrick could see it delightfully on his face, in the push of his hands, but he’d laid Patrick out instead, right on that striped, blue comforter and kissed him right into the pillows. 

Jonny admitting to Patrick he had lube in his nightstand was both mildly embarrassing (for Jonny) and largely amusing (for Patrick). Jonny had gone all shy about it, as if he didn’t just have Patrick’s dick in his mouth. He felt like he needed to explain himself, partly because the line between Patrick’s eyebrows had deepened in a soft mark of worry, as if there was some absurd notion Jonny was using the lube with anyone else. It wasn’t a _logical_ reaction, to show worry, but he expressed it all the same. 

Laughable, really. 

“It’s for me, you dick,” Jonny had laughed, biting a kiss to Patrick’s jaw. 

Patrick couldn’t help it, when his frown deepened. “What?” 

“As in, like—” Jonny had made a gesture with his hand which likely—maybe—implied, ‘ _it’s for when I finger myself,’_ but in reality it sort of just looked like he was waving his hand around in front of Patrick’s face. 

But Patrick had blushed, which was universal code for: he got it. 

“Can I do that?” 

Jonny was sort of distracted by the slide of Patrick’s dick against his own, so it had taken him a second. He’d simply murmured in question. 

“I want—I want to have my fingers in you,” Patrick said.

“Shit,” Jonny breathed, pulling at the hair on the nape of Patrick’s neck. “That’s—yeah. Obviously. But. Considering I’ll be fucking you and all, I get first dibs.” 

It seemed natural, completely normal, that all they could do was laugh. 

Jonny didn’t ask Patrick if he was sure, when he pressed the first finger inside, or the second, or the third. He kept the movement controlled, gaze flickering over Patrick’s face for any sign of discomfort. It hurt, yeah. Patrick wasn’t going to pretend it didn’t, but the light in Jonny’s eyes, glimmering in the black of his irises, was enough to keep him grounded. 

Patrick’s not sure how long they stay like that, with Jonny three fingers deep and thick inside him, scissoring lightly and tugging on the rim when he threatens to take them out. He doesn’t, keeps them in there until Patrick starts circling his hips, a silent urge for Jonny to just _get on with it._

The pain ebs, simmiers away into something comfortable until all Patrick can start to do is pant gently, biting down on his bottom lip when Jonny’s fingers go just that bit deeper. It’s good, it’s _good,_ it’s—

“Oh _shit_ ,” Patrick gasps out, almost unexpectedly; his own voice completely shocked out of him. 

He’s not sure what the fuck Jonny did, what the fuck he’s _doing_ , but the angle of his touch is melting his veins into live wire. 

“Don’t stop—don’t stop doing that,” Patrick tries. His grip on Jonny is so tight he can’t wait to trace the bruises that match his fingers tomorrow. 

Patrick’s not an idiot (except, maybe sometimes). He _knows_ what Jonny is doing, logically. He’s studied up on this shit, okay? But holy _fuck_ he never could have thought, or imagined, that—

“ _Fuck, fuckfuckfuck—_ ”

 _—_ that it could feel like this. 

Jonny’s kissing at the corner of his mouth, like he’s sipping at Patrick’s pleasure, tasting it from his lips until it settles in his own veins. Patrick hopes they feel like live wire, too. 

“Jonny, dude, you—” Patrick breathes, biting at Jonny’s lips. “Get in me. Now. Get in me, or I swear I’ll—” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jonny says softly, failing to hide his smile. “Just want to make you feel good.” 

Patrick pulls at Jonny’s hair, just enough to bring Jonny’s eyes into his line of vision. It hits Patrick, then, how important his response really is. 

Jonny’s gaze is gentle and warm, dark with heat and mirrored with the instance of his fingers that are still lighting up Patrick’s spine from the inside, but Patrick wants him to hear, wants him to _know—_

“You always have.”

Jonny surges forward to kiss him, as if he’s powerless to do anything but, and Patrick can’t help but grab at his face, holding him steady. He’s moaning into Jonny’s mouth, a small, deep thing that feels unavoidable. Not that he thinks Jonny minds; every time he moans there’s a pulse through his bloodstream, like warmth and happiness and unbridled desire. 

“Jonny,” he says gently, biting it against Jonny’s mouth. “Get in me.” It’s not a request. 

Patrick misses Jonny’s fingers when they’re gone, resting up on his elbows when Jonny sits back on his knees. He wants to put a hand around himself, stroke idly at his dick whilst Jonny fumbles with the lube, but he already feels too dangerously close; one quick grip and that’s quite possibly all it will take. 

“Oh,” Jonny says, clean hand wrapping around Patrick’s ankle mindlessly. “We don’t have—uh—”

“What?”

“Condoms.”

“Oh.”

Patrick sits up further, until he’s close enough to take Jonny’s face in his hands again. He looks good like this, flushed and sweaty and already wrecked. But he’s nervous, too, almost hesitant and Patrick can’t help but put his lips to Jonny’s nose. “It’s okay,” he says, smiling at Jonny so close he almost goes a little cross-eyed, just so he can look into Jonny’s eyes. “We don’t need ‘em, right?”

Jonny, being the good Canadian boy he is, bites worriedly at his bottom lip. “I dunno… Like, remember that film we watched in health class, with the—”

Patrick puts his fingers over Jonny’s lips. “Jonny, that was a very unsexy video, don’t make me think of it right now.”

Patrick feels the light inside his chest flicker brighter when Jonny laughs. 

“Right,” Jonny smiles, kissing at Patrick’s fingers. It feels nice, even if it is a little dorky. Patrick doesn’t move his hand and Jonny doesn’t stop him, he’ll just have to make do with his muffled speech for the moment. “I guess we’re both—I mean—no one else, right? So—it’s safe, and—”

Patrick replaces his fingers with his mouth, covering Jonny’s lips with his own and holding them there, just for a second. “Yeah Jonny,” he says finally, barely moving. “No one else.”

Jonny kisses him again, deeper, more insistent and pushing until Patrick’s back is flat to the mattress. Patrick can’t help but wrap his arms around Jonny’s shoulders, pulling at him until their chests are pressed closed together, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. It feels—nice doesn’t feel like the right word—but it feels _nice_ to feel Jonny’s cock against his own, hard and warm, wet with too much lube and reminding them both what they’re there to do. That, however, insinuates Patrick _forgot_ and that would be a serious, miscalculated crime. 

“Like this?” Jonny asks, one hand jacking himself slowly, knuckles brushing against Patrick’s own cock and making him keen. 

The question isn’t whole, but Patrick knows what he means. 

“Yeah, he replies softly, wrapping his legs around Jonny’s middle. “Want to see you.”

And really, Jonny can’t argue with that.

 _I only ever want to see you,_ plays in Patrick’s mind, like a bow on the strings of a violin. He can’t tell if the thought is his own, but the symphony resounds down to his core, all the same. 

Patrick feels a soft worry roll off Jonny’s skin, seeping into his own, and it’s so far from what he wants—from how he _feels—_ he digs his heels into the backs of Jonny’s thighs, dragging him in closer. He feels that worry, knows it for what he means and all he can do is hold Jonny close. “You could never hurt me,” Patrick whispers, confident in it in a way he’s never been before. “You could never hurt me. Never Jonny, never, never—”

He’s breathless, by the time Jonny’s cock is sinking inside. 

It’s—more. So much more than Jonny’s fingers, or Patrick’s own. It’s intense, in a way Patrick can’t describe, because all he feels is electricity. Patrick thinks if he were to stand out in a storm, right in the centre of a field with his hand stretched to the sky, a bolt of lightning striking at his fingertips would feel less than this. It’s confronting, to feel this _much_ , and all he can do is bury his face in Jonny’s neck to manage it. 

Tremors are rocking through Jonny, Patrick can feel them against his lips, right on the tendons of his throat and he kisses over them, hoping they’ll calm. He knows the effort Jonny is expending to keep himself still must be hurting, he can feel it in his own blood; the control, the heat, the _want._ But he’s patient, too, holding true to his own fear. He doesn’t want to hurt Patrick, no matter how strong the desire pulsing through him is to _take._

 _It’s okay,_ Patrick thinks, lips at the spot behind Jonny’s ear. _It’s okay._

Jonny moves, just a small, minute thing and Patrick has to bite his teeth down on Jonny’s neck just to stay quiet. It’s so much, so much, and Patrick doesn’t know how he’ll ever _think_ again. His eyes are closed, squeezed firmly shut, and behind them he sees his future. 

He sees stars and he sees Jonny. 

It’s all he’s ever needed.

“Patrick,” Jonny breathes, somewhere by his temple. “Oh god, Patrick.”

“Yeah,” Patrick tries, unable to manage much more. “Yeah.”

They fall into a rhythm, a gentle cadence that holds no real signature of time, but plays the beat of _them_ all the same. Jonny’s arms rest either side of Patrick’s head, his fingers curling mindlessly through the top of his curls in a gentle tug. The blunt of Patrick’s nails drag down Jonny’s back, up and down, running along the line of his traps, either side of his spine, digging into the dip of his waist. He can’t stop touching, every press of his palms, his fingers, tapping out that rhythm clearer in Patrick’s head. 

Any uncertainty Patrick held melts away, moulding thick and yet clear, too, into something so blindingly _good._ Spine meltingly good. Jonny’s rocking in deep, right to the core of him and every drag of his cock drags at the spot that causes Patrick’s vision to swim. He doesn’t know how long he can last, not when it feels like this, not when _Jonny_ feels like this, but Patrck wants to hold onto this sensation forever. 

Jonny’s hips _snap_ forward and Patrick feels his back arch up off the bed in a tight bow. He moans with it, deep and desperate and his hands fall to his side, right next to Jonny’s. Patrick doesn’t ask for what he wants, but Jonny knows all the same; he twines their fingers together, tight and locked and pushes Patrick deeper into the bed. 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Patrick gasps, voice breaking. “That’s it, fuck—Jonny—you’re—”

Jonny pulls back, just enough to look down on Patrick. Patrick smiles, unable to do anything less; soft huffs of air are escaping his lungs, right through the grin of his teeth and Jonny’s looking at him with something Patrick doesn’t know how to name. 

“I love you,” Jonny says, simple. 

Patrick squeezes Jonny’s fingers with his own. “I guess you’re alright.”

Laughter is shocked out of Jonny, pouring from his chest and Patrick takes it for all he’s worth. Jonny kisses the laughter into him, strong and sharp and Patrick thinks he wants to feel the taste of Jonny’s laugh on his tongue forever. 

The frame of Jonny’s bed knocks against the wall everytime Jonny moves his hips and Patrick feels like he should make a mental note of that, for later. Because Jonny best believe there’s going to be a lot of _later._ Every night, if Patrick can manage it. Fuck school. Every morning, too. Saturday’s after games, when they’re tired and sore and can fuck with gentle reverence. Patrick will get Jonny on his side, loosen him up after a long, gruelling game and rock into him until they can’t _see._ Sunday afternoons, when they should be studying, when Jonny will be trying to do his math homework and Patrick will climb into his lap instead, riding him into the mattress until Jonny forgets how to form the letters that make up his own name.

The only name he needs is _Patrick_ , anyway. 

Patrick can keep quiet, he can, when Jonny’s parents and brother will be under the same roof, he can be good, but right now he wants to shout until his voice goes hoarse. 

Jonny’s moaning against his mouth, loud, and Patrick can’t help but bite at his bottom lip. “Make me come, come on.”

When Jonny laughs again it’s with disbelief and shocking fondness. He kisses along Patrick’s jaw, down his neck and to the line of his collarbones. He presses his tongue to the hollow of Patrick’s throat and Patrick can’t help but release a completely undignified gasp. 

“Don’t know why I love you,” Jonny says, moving his hips quicker, stronger.

“Yeah— _fuck—_ well,” Patrick breathes, finding Jonny’s mouth on his own again. “You do, so. No take backs.”

Jonny’s fucking into him hard now, deeper than Patrick could have thought possible. It’s overwhelming, in the best possible way, to feel like he holds a firework about to ignite, right in the palm of his hand. In his hands, all he holds is Jonny. 

Patrick wants to come, holy fucking _god_ he wants to come, and every stroke of Jonny’s cock is only serving to drive him more and more insane, threatening to tip him over the edge. The pleasure feels doubled, in a way he can’t explain, like Jonny’s heart is in his own. Jonny’s heart has always been in his own, but his want is now, too. 

“Baby,” Jonny murmurs, over the line of Patrick’s cheekbone. “Oh—shit— _baby._ ” 

“Come in me, Jonny, come on.”

When Jonny comes, Patrick feels it like he would his own orgasm. It’s intense, something heavy and _bright_ and Patrick isn’t even aware they’re both moaning—on the cusp of shouting—until he realises his own mouth is moving, too. Jonny’s hands in his own are impossibly tight, pushing Patrick so hard into the sheets he’s worried the bed won’t survive it. Patrick doesn’t care, he’d live on the floor, in the mess of a ruined mattress and broken slats, if it meant he got to live with Jonny.

“That’s it,” he’s breathing, legs locked around Jonny’s middle. He’s rocking his hips upward, fucking himself deeper on Jonny’s cock. It must be overwhelming, for Jonny; it’s plenty overwhelming for Patrick and he hasn’t even come yet. 

“Oh, baby,” Jonny tries, kissing all over Patrick’s face, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. “I got you.”

 _Yeah, you do,_ Patrick thinks. 

Jonny untangles their fingers on their hands, just one; he keeps his grip firm on the other. He leans back, just enough to wrap his fingers around the head of Patrick’s cock. Patrick’s hips jerk off the bed, an indescribable sound reverberating somewhere in the back of his throat and Jonny’s not too far off making the same noise of his own. Jonny’s cock is still inside him, still hard and heavy and Patrick intends to come with it in him. 

“That’s it, baby,” Jonny says roughly, hand moving quick. “Love you, so much.”

Patrick uses the hand he has free to grab at Jonny’s face, palm right at his jaw and fingers spread wide across his cheek. It’s—it’s so much—all of it—everything—Patrick feels light and colour and _heat,_ burning around inside him, right at the heart of him and he doesn’t know how to categorise any of it. When he closes his eyes he sees his future again, but this time with a thought he knows is not his own. 

He sees himself, in an odd, disorientating sort of way; he sees with eyes that are not his own, looking across at himself, curled into a sleeping bag, right on the grass. It’s his own face, happy and dimpled and smiling back at him. He knows he’s talking, in an abstract, disconnected way and he doesn’t need to _hear_ to know the words. He’s talking about the stars, about constellations and patterns and how one day, when he and Jonny are older, he’d like to buy them a spaceship so they can fly to the moon. Perhaps, if they can fly to the moon, they can figure out a way to touch the stars. Patrick knows because he _remembers;_ Canada, no older than six—maybe seven—and Jonny’s hand reaches out to take his, right over the sleeping bag. 

_I love you,_ the voice in his head says, speaking to himself but without a sound. _I love you, Patrick._

“That’s when I knew,” Jonny says, the Jonny that’s _real_ and here with him, now. Patrick’s eyes blink open, staring at Jonny above him and he sees the memory, right there in Jonny’s eyes. Patrick’s only ever seen the stars. “That’s when I knew I was in love with you.” 

Jonny kisses him when he comes, face in his hands and forever laid out before them. 

*******

Life becomes a little easier, after that. 

*******

Later, after days, weeks, of just learning _them_ , they tell their families.

Patrick’s mom cries.

And so does his dad. 

He might not admit it, but he thinks Jonny’s dad does, too. 

Andrée laughs when she cries, says, _“No having sex under my roof,”_ and Jonny flushes red from the rule already broken; they both do, caught. 

When they tell their friends, Sharpy acts like he’s won the lottery, like he’s possibly more excited than they are and Patrick wrestles him into the carpet when he asks how big Jonny’s dick is. 

Seabs smiles in calm reverence and Duncs nods by his side like this was always their path; always set to be the conclusion. 

It was. Patrick can’t help but agree. 

It’s not a conclusion, though. A _conclusion_ would imply an end and an end would imply it’s over. It’s not over. Who they were before, maybe. But Patrick doesn’t see it like that either. He doesn’t categorise it into Pre-Bond and Post-Bond because—

They’ve only ever been them. 

They’ve only ever been soulmates. 

Bonding didn’t change who Jonny was and it certainly didn’t change Patrick; it didn’t change _them._

Patrick’s only ever known he’s been in love with Jonny and now?

Now he gets to touch him for it. 

Now he gets to touch him forever.

A beautiful beginning, really. 

*** 

Erica says she’d always known. 

Erica’s a little liar. 

*** 

Life is better and the same. New and comforting. Changed and whole, yet completely unmoved. 

The difference comes from Patrick’s mind, from his thoughts; from thoughts he knows aren’t his own. 

It’s alarming, sometimes, for Jonny’s fingers to touch lightly at his arm and to hear a melody play inside his head; always completely in tune. The thoughts are welcome, Patrick accepts them like sand absorbing the tide, but it never stops him from jumping. 

It’s alarming, but it’s exciting, too. Toes dipped in sand, water at his ankles and a symphony he wants played forever.

There should be more to figure out, and maybe there is. Maybe they do. But it doesn’t feel obvious, at least not to Patrick. There’s so much to talk about, but nothing Patrick wants to say. 

Maybe all he wants to say is, _“I love you,”_ over and over until Jonny’s sick of it. He doesn’t need to speak it anymore, either; he can press his lips to the flushed skin at Jonny’s collarbone and Jonny will _hear_ it, echoing right through his mind. 

Patrick says it regardless. Bonding powers be damned. 

“I like it, when you do that,” Jonny will say, tapping the tips of his fingers to Patrick’s forehead when they’re laying, side by side, in Jonny’s bed; nowhere to be. “When you say what you’re thinking,” he says—elaborates—as if Patrick can’t hear the thought vibrating behind his eyes. “I hear it twice.” 

_Oh_ , Patrick will think, watching the curve of Jonny’s lips tilt in a soft, almost self-conscious smile. 

Jonny kisses Patrick then, like the first time. Always like the first time. “I like knowing it twice.”

Patrick wishes he could tell Jonny more, to show him his thoughts in a way that is more clear, something a little more constructed. Jonny gets images, blurred colours of feelings and emotions that Patrick pours himself into; he wants _more._ He wants to show Jonny everything, all of it, every moment they’ve ever shared and how he felt, for every second of it. 

It’s what Jonny did for him, filling Patrick’s head with a memory seen through different eyes, in a moment Patrick could have hardly thought for himself anyway.

Patrick wants to show Jonny their past. Their present. What he’s dreamed their future to always be. 

Anything. He’ll take anything. 

For now, Patrick will kiss Jonny in return, until his lips turn numb and warm, gentle in their touch and tasting of nothing but toffee apple. 

***

**October 12, 1993.**

“Patty. Settle down.” His mom’s eyes roll, bright and fond in the rear mirror, like she’s trying her very best not to laugh. “It’s just a sleepover!” 

Patrick huffs, swinging his legs out in front of him from the car seat. “A sleepover at _Jonny’s,_ mommy.” He pushes his face up against the window, the glass cold on his nose. It tickles, making him laugh and he marvels in the fog painted by his breath. 

It’s dark outside, too dark to see anything but the blur of houses and buildings and street lights and Patrick doesn’t _care._ It’s too long, time is taking too _long_ and Patrick just wants to be at Jonny’s. 

He just wants to see Jonny. 

He’s so excited, to the point he wants to float away into the clouds because yeah, he sees Jonny almost every day, has since he met him, but he’s never _slept at his house_ before. 

Patrick doesn’t want to sleep. He can’t. He _won’t_. Time with Jonny is never enough and time always feels so much longer at night. He hopes the time will feel stretched when they’re together, pulled out long like toffee and never, ever ending. 

There’s so much he wants to do. He’s so—so _excited._ He can’t stop bouncing in his seat and he doesn’t even mind if his mom laughs at him, because she can’t take this night away from him. From them. 

No one can. 

He wishes he could have spent the day with Jonny too, but Jonny’s family were busy _._ But that’s okay because tomorrow they can sleep in and have breakfast and spend all day, every minute, together. Patrick has already told his mom to not pick him up too early; hopefully she doesn’t pick him up at all. 

When the car stops— _finallyfinallyfinally—_ Patrick starts pulling at the buckle’s of his seat, frowning when they won’t budge. 

“Hurry, mom!” He shouts, hoping she hears him even as she gets out of the car. 

She’s laughing when she opens his door. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this excitable, baby.” 

Patrick doesn’t really know what that means, but it sort of sounds like _exciting_ and yes, Patrick is very excited! It’s good his mom realises.

When she puts him down on the ground, Patrick bolts. He knows he shouldn’t, his mom says it’s dangerous to run off and especially in the dark but this is _Jonny’s_ house and Jonny’s front lawn and driveway and Patrick could retrace the steps in his sleep. 

The front door swings open moments before he reaches it and he doesn’t stop running. Because that’s Jonny, it’s really him on the doorstep and Patrick flings himself into him before he can think. 

“Hi Pat,” Jonny says, catching him. He’s smiling and happy and he squeezes Patrick so _tightly_ , like he never wants to let go either. 

“Jonny!” He practically shouts, their faces only a few inches apart. Jonny has such nice eyes. “I’m so happy to see you!” 

Jonny’s eyes only get warmer. Patrick always loves how warm they are, especially when they look at him. He’s never seen Jonny’s eyes look as warm at anything else. “Did you miss me?” Jonny asks. He’s joking, maybe teasing a little. But. 

“Yes,” Patrick replies honestly. 

Jonny nods, satisfied. “Good. I missed you too.” 

Jonny’s dad laughs from behind them, Patrick thinks his mom might be laughing too. “You’d think they’d been apart for more than a day. Jon’s had his face pressed up against the glass in the front room for the past half hour waiting.”

Patrick’s mom sighs, chuckles and says, “I guess that’s what happens when you’re—“

Patrick doesn’t listen to the rest, too busy being pulled into the house by Jonny’s hand, clasped so tightly with his own. 

*

“Shh! Pat! We’re gonna get in trouble!” 

Patrick puts his hands over his mouth, unable to stop the laughter that’s bubbling out of him. He can’t stop. He doesn’t know how. And sure, Jonny can get as cross as he wants but he’s giggling too. 

They’re as bad as each other, tucked under the covers of Jonny’s bed and hidden from everything. Patrick likes Jonny’s bed. Likes how soft it is, how warm; he feels safe here. 

Happiness has never felt more real than it does right now, pressed into Jonny’s side and laughing so hard his belly hurts. He feels it in every rib, sore in a way that feels wonderful and Patrick doesn’t know if he’s ever felt like this. 

“Boys!” 

Jonny’s hand claps over his mouth, their fingers mixing together and Patrick holds his breath. He’s too deep under the covers, never wants to move, but he knows it’s the angry sounds of Andreé at the door. 

“Sorry, maman,” Jonny says quickly, poking his head out from when he was burrowed. His hand stays over Patrick’s, still hidden under the comforter. 

“Davey is trying to _sleep,_ Jonathan.” 

“I know, sorry, sorry.” 

Patrick hears Andrée sigh. “Come on, how about we have some cookies, eh?” 

Patrick sits up at that, Jonny’s hand falling from his mouth to sit gently at his lap. Andrée smiles when she sees him, any evidence of earlier anger gone. “Hello, mon petit,” she says softly, a gentle laughter to her tone. “Do cookies sound good?” 

Patrick nods, squeezing Jonny’s hand. “Yes please, Mrs Gilbert.” 

*

Andreé makes the bestest cookies. Patrick doesn’t know if they taste better because she adds more chocolate chips, or that they’re extra sweet, or if it’s because they’re eating them so _late_. Patrick never gets to stay up this late, and he certainly doesn’t get to stay up and eat cookies; he doesn’t ever get to spend this time with Jonny. 

Jonny’s laughing at him, right into his glass of milk and Patrick pouts right back. He just wants to make the cookies nice and soft; he’s dunking them in his milk until they’ll melt in his mouth the way he likes, but he keeps leaving them too long that they crumble. 

“Pat, you keep losing them!” Jonny snorts, milk on his upper lip like his dad’s moustache and Patrick can’t help the giggle that rings out of him. 

“ _Jonny,_ ” he whines, getting milk on his fingers when he loses the last of his cookie. _Again._

“Here,” Jonny says, passing Patrick his cookie. He’s taken a bite out of it already, leaving it looking a little bit like a moon. 

Patrick laughs again, taking it and holding it up to his mouth, like a smile. “Hello, Jonathan,” he says behind the cookie. Jonny’s name is so long, Patrick always gets a little tongue tied when he says it. “Bone-joor.”

Patrick’s French is terrible and he doesn’t understand it much at all, but Jonny’s been teaching him some words. Like _hello;_ he knows that one. 

“Bonjour, Patrick,” Jonny replies easily, voice gentle. His face is doing something a little funny, like he’s smiling, but he’s not. He’s looking at Patrick like—like Patrick is special. 

Patrick likes that. 

He tilts his head to the side, cheeks hurting when he smiles. He wonders, could he learn how to tell Jonny he’s the best, in French? Maybe Andrée will teach him. He thinks Jonny would like that. 

Patrick takes a bite of Jonny’s cookie, right over where Jonny’s little teeth marks were and hopes he can taste him a little, too. “Oh,” he says, cookie still held to his lips. “What about you?” He frowns. There’s none left, Patrick has the last one. 

Jonny shrugs, eyes soft. “It’s okay. I’d rather you be happy.” 

“I am,” Patrick replies. He hopes Jonny knows how much it’s true. 

“Anyways,” Jonny says, like it’s simple. “I don’t need cookies. You’re my cookie.” 

Patrick drops his head when he smiles, chewing on his cookie and savouring the sweetness. He’s not going to let this one drop in milk; this one is his to keep.

He wonders how to say, _forever,_ in French, too. 

***

**Now.**

“That’s when I knew,” Patrick almost whispers. His palm is pressed to Jonny’s cheek, where he’s flushed warm and pink; his eyes are wide, almost impossibly large and Patrick holds them like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. 

There isn’t. 

He doesn’t know how, but it worked. It _worked._ He wanted to show Jonny a memory, his memory; he touched Jonny and thought of the moment, thought of that night and the colour of it is reflecting in Jonny’s eyes. 

Jonny knows. Patrick can see it. He can _feel_ it, in Jonny’s thoughts playing with his own. 

It _worked._

“I didn’t understand then,” Patrick continues, “but—I knew.” 

They were meant to be studying—they’re always meant to be studying—spread out on Jonny’s bed, books heavy and tossed on the sheets, always forgotten. Patrick can feel a notebook crinkled and crushed under his elbow, a pencil digging somewhere by hip, Jonny’s fucking calculator right by his ribs and he doesn’t fucking _care_. 

Jonny had been working on—something, Patrick can’t remember; he’d been focused, deep and dark and Patrick had pressed his fingers to the lines in his forehead that Jonny was starting to worry there. Jonny didn’t notice, simply hummed content at Patrick’s touch through the bond and worry over finals simmering beneath everything else. 

Patrick had wanted to count his eyelashes.

 _Hello, lover,_ Patrick had thought, running his touch through Jonny’s hair, fondness and mirth swimming through the bond. 

Jonny had ignored him, muttered something audibly about _fucking trig_ and was smiling at the edge of it all; Patrick was so in love with him. 

It had felt right, then. 

It felt right to touch his forehead to Jonny’s, to pull his gaze from a textbook that didn't matter and put it on him instead. His eyes had closed a second later, those eyelashes Patrick had wanted to count close enough to brush against his cheeks. 

In the end, showing him a memory—a moment—had been easy. 

It had all been so easy. 

“ _Pour toujours_ ,” Jonny says finally, mouth so close. It’s an answer, an answer to a thought Patrick had when he was _three_ ; a question he learnt the response to in time, but has only ever wanted it answered like this. 

_Forever_ . Jonny shouts it silently, filling at the corners of Patrick’s mind; rippling over him like a tide. _Forever._

Patrick kisses him, thumb dipped in the corner of Jonny’s mouth, feeling it against his own lips. It’s always so—much. Kissing Jonny is so _much_ and sometimes it’s easy, quick and simple and soft, a reminder that they’re _there_ more than anything else; a hello, a goodbye, a promise. 

Patrick tries to be good, they both do, when they’re not alone. They didn’t kiss in the quad at lunch before and they don’t now—not willing to suffer through the trauma they would be forced to endure at the hands of a merciless Patrick Sharp—but Jonny’s fingers will curl themselves around the sleeve of Patrick’s sweater all the same. It’s an unconscious thing, Jonny seeking comfort in the beat of Patrick’s pulse beneath his touch; Patrick doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to the feel of Jonny using the rhythm of his heart to match it—steady it—with his own. 

It all feels so—private. Everything. All of it. Touches and looks and _feelings,_ not something they ever want designed to be shared. Jonny is his, only his and Patrick doesn’t want to share what he’s waited for all these years, with anyone. 

But in Jonny’s room, on top of the blue, striped comforter, they can be whatever they want; they can be themselves. 

Jonny’s hands brush against Patrick’s hips, dipping his fingers beneath the hem of his sweater and resting in a gentle _pull_ on his skin. Patrick jolts, a small thing that pushes him closer into Jonny’s hold, hands tightening on Jonny’s cheeks and a current like electricity, sparking up his skin. 

It’s been months, only a few, maybe forever, but Patrick doesn’t know if Jonny’s hands on his skin, his _bare skin,_ will ever stop feeling like that. 

Warmth floods at the corners of Patrick’s mind, bright like fucking sunshine and a calm he revels in; he revels in the glow. A shape forms, small at first and dulled by the golds and yellows but it clears, in each pull of Jonny’s hands and push of his lips it clears; it’s Patrick. 

It’s him, with milk on his upper lip and a cookie raised to his mouth; he’s smiling, brighter than he ever thought possible and to see it with eyes that aren’t his own, throws him off something fierce. 

_Hello, Jonathan,_ he hears himself say, slow and sticky and a startling fondness bursts behind his eyelids. _Bone-joor._

It’s as awful as Patrick remembered it to be, amplified through a reflection of sound that is not his own and it makes him smile against Jonny’s lips. They’re not kissing, not really, more pressed together in a gentle hold neither of them want to part from.

Jonny’s next thought, the one he had when he was only small, when he was sat across from Patrick at a table too big and cookies in their bellies too sweet, rings loud; so wonderfully, brilliantly loud. 

_Forever. Forever and ever and ever._

Jonny didn’t understand, no more than Patrick did, but he sees himself behind his own eyes and he knows. 

He knows. 

“You fucking sap,” Patrick whispers, overwhelmed. 

Jonny grins, bumping Patrick’s nose with his own. “You fucking started it.” 

Patrick’s laughing when Jonny kisses him again. It’s all so wonderful. So fucking wonderful and Patrick might not have a clue what happens tomorrow, or where they’ll be in a year, or in two. He knows nothing beyond now; nothing beyond the taste of Jonny’s laughter on his tongue, or the feel of Jonny’s skin beneath his hands.

Nothing but Jonny. 

He pulls back, just enough to look into Jonny’s eyes and when he finds him smiling, he puts both his fingers in Jonny’s mouth; he captures the shape of his smile and keeps it there, right in his touch. Patrick laughs, joy igniting and sparking bright through the bond and the colour of it is reflected in Jonny’s eyes. 

Patrick doesn’t know the future, doesn’t find he needs to because—

He _knows_. 

And when you know, you know. 

Or something like that. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> watch this space as i can definitely envision a series for these two in the future. i just can't let this version of them go. 
> 
> :) thank you for reading!


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